


Sonaak ahrk Vahdin (The Dragonpriest and the Maiden)

by MithrilMaia



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: AU where the dragon priests wake up and don't immediately get wrecked by the Dovahkiin, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Cult (Elder Scrolls), Dragons may take human form just to further assert their superiority, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Or to keep an eye on their risk taking priests, Possible Character Death, Sibling drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24969898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MithrilMaia/pseuds/MithrilMaia
Summary: Strange looks from villagers, secretive meetings between her guardians, an ominous dagger from an extinct but much dreaded cult, Ofan was uncertain where to turn for straight answers regarding her origins! After investigating forbidden ground upon which even Savos Aren feared to tread, the young mage encounters a being that will change her life forever.The Dov were created for domination. So to, was the Dovahkiin. Viintaas wants nothing to do with such dangerous power, but it is ingrained in his very essence. Is he destined to follow in the footsteps of the First? Or is there another path for a Dragonborn to walk?
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An AU about the dragon priests waking up in the crazy 4th Era! Not all priests will appear immediately! (Sorry Raghot fans, the man needs his beauty sleep as he dreams of POISON). I don't think any violence is terribly graphic, but dragon teeth and claws cause a lot of damage even without shouts!

Five thousand years of isolation. Perhaps only four thousand? Or had he been asleep for six millennia instead? The passage of time was difficult for the lich to discern. He floated around the confines of his magical cell. Undead eyes glaring at the enthralled wizards who maintained the potent energy field. He would have left this forsaken tomb decades ago if not for that accursed Dunmer. His fist clenched around the Staff of Magnus. He had been _so close_ to saving Durnehviir. Ahzidal had agreed with his theory, Nahkriin had discovered how to open the correct portal, Vahlok had convinced Alduin to give them a chance…then everything fell apart. If only Miraak had not been so wicked and foolish! If only he had not murdered Alduin’s beloved Konahrik, the World-Eater would not have encouraged the already prevalent cruelty against the remaining commoners! Then they would not have revolted and-

Morokei dismissed the thoughts that had tormented him for years. “If only” helped no one. He stiffened, alerted to a new presence within the ancient ruins.

“Wo meyz wah dii vul junaar?”

He titled his head as he wordlessly siphoned their magika. The intruder’s magical energy felt both ancient and youthful, yet not akin to the mer. Morokei was intrigued by this, but he issued another warning regardless.

“Nivahriin muz fen siiv nid aaz het.”

Silence, yet he felt the strange aura venture further into Labyrinthian, heedless of his words and his consistent draining of their power. He frowned.

"You do not answer... must I use this guttural language of yours?"

The intruder paused and Morokei was able to further sense their lifeforce’s signature. His violet eyes flickered in thought. They were affected by some sort of time displacement…perhaps from a Kel itself! The dragon priest sighed, his curiosity dampened by realism. A more logical explanation was that he had lost all skills of discernment in this prison. A new thought struck him.

"Have you returned, Aren? My old friend?"

Their essence did not feel like Aren, but Morokei was beginning to doubt his own senses. His lip curled in disgust as he remembered the cowardice of the Dunmer.

"Do you seek to finish that which you could not?"

Still no response and the dragon priest chuckled without mirth.

"You only face failure once more..."

He straightened abruptly. The trespasser’s aura was undoubtedly altered by Time!

"You...you are not Aren, are you? Has he sent you in his place?"

Finally, a distant reply echoed through the massive catacombs. “S-Savos Aren? No, I am not the archmage.” Hesitation. “…Where are you, exactly?”

Morokei blinked in genuine surprise. The voice was young, feminine, and rather confused!

“What trickery is this?” He demanded, his voice booming throughout Labyrinthian. “Does that craven charlatan send a child to face me in his stead?”

Sounds of a skirmish, followed by another long pause occurred before the female responded. She seemed rather indignant. “I am no child, sir! Archmage Aren does not-” The roar of a troll drowned out her words and the clamor of combat resumed once more! 

Morokei scoffed, his words reverberating throughout the tomb. “Archmage Aren…how ludicrous! Did he warn you that your own power would be your undoing? That it would only serve to strengthen me?”

Her speech sounded breathless now. “He knows-knows not that I am here.”

The metallic creaking of the ancient gate opening signaled the stranger’s approach to his prison. The dragon priest peered through the translucent barrier, intrigued. The cadence of her footsteps slowed, and he finally saw the naive mage with the Kel-touched aura as she ventured down the stone staircase. Her apprentice robes were covered in dirt and blood and her pale curls bounced in all directions. Her turquoise eyes were bright however and she regarded the enthralled wizards with an expression of horrified realization. Then her gaze turned toward her him and her expression became one of excitement; a reaction Morokei was _not_ expecting!

“Praise Akatosh, you _are_ a dragon priest!” She exclaimed, foregoing all caution, and practically running toward the energy that encircled him. The young creature did not even glance at the Staff of Magnus, clearly more captivated by Morokei himself! He was uncertain whether he should be insulted or amused. The lich’s eyes narrowed behind his mask as she held aloft a familiar looking dagger that was used only by esteemed members of the Dragon Cult.

“Where did you find such a relic?” Morokei inquired, floating over to the edge of his small cell, towering over the petite woman on the other side. He suspiciously examined those shining turquoise eyes for signs of an illusion spell that would conceal vampirism.

“I know not, save that I awoke with it.” She replied, honestly. “I was hoping a true follower of the dragons would know which sect it originated from.” The Nord finally seemed to realize her ridiculous lack of caution, yet she did not retreat. Fascinated by her aura and her boldness, Morokei inclined his head. “Each blade does carry the unique signature of the craftsman who forged it. Continue.”

“I overheard Archmage Aren warn Professor Tolfdir against expeditions to Labyrinthian and he sounded so oddly frightened and secretive, it was suspicious to say the least.” She glanced over at the enthralled wizards. “I now understand why…” Her thoughtful expression met his intense stare. “To keep a dull tale brief, after much research I decided it was worth the risk to investigate for myself. I know not what I can offer in return that would be of interest, or considered a fair trade, but is there a chance that you would aid me in discovering who created this blade?”

Morokei arched an eyebrow, though his visage was hidden. This was not at all what he had expected! He folded his decrepit arms. The ancient priest had felt Alduin’s return. He could do nothing to serve his master here. Even if this brazen female was not a time displaced member of his order, Morokei was now completely certain that the young woman had encountered an Elder Scroll itself. Knowledge of a Kel’s location would be invaluable.

The lich idly gestured to the barrier. “I am rather preoccupied at the moment.”

The woman took a deep breath. She knew this was a ridiculously stupid idea, worthy of Viintaas, but she had no choice. Feeling the unrelenting gaze of the dragon priest upon her, she crept up behind the closest thrall and plunged the archaic dagger into its ghostly back!


	2. Chapter 2

Estormo was impressed when he saw the apprentice mage stumble out of the hidden entrance to Labyrinthian. Despite being bloodied, half frozen and covered in dirt, Ofan was still alive. Ancano was right; she was dangerous.

The petite woman startled when she spotted the Thalmor agent.  
“What-?”

“Ancano has been watching you,” Estormo interjected. “He surmised that your interest in the Dragon Cult and discovery of the Eye of Magnus would lead you here.”

Ofan peered at the Altmer with uncertainty. “…Does your superior often watch young maidens? That is unsettling!”

Estormo scoffed. “His interest is purely professional, I assure you. Your deeds have been deemed a threat to Thalmor interests, so Ancano wants you dead.”

Her mouth dropped open. “But-but I have no quarrel with either of you!”

He smirked. “I am afraid you do…”

Estormo swiftly hurled two ice spikes directly at her heart! Ofan desperately tried to summon a ward but her magika was drained! She squeezed her eyes shut, heard the ice shatter, yet felt no pain. The scent of ozone filled the damp air and she opened her eyes just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning surge toward the Altmer! Estormo was disintegrated where he stood! The ward around Ofan was dispelled and she turned to see Morokei hovering behind her, his gaze fixed on the ashes of their foe.

“I dislike cowardly mer,” he said, nonchalantly.

Ofan sighed in relief. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

Her sincere tone drew his attention.

“You would have survived. His skills were mediocre at best,” the dragon priest replied, evenly.

She offered him a sweet smile regardless, utterly unphased by his eldritch form. “I failed to properly introduce myself. My name is Ofan.”

He fully faced her. Ofan. Dovahzul for Gift. Interesting. “I am Morokei.”

“Just Morokei?” She inquired, curiously. “Not Lord Morokei or Sir Morokei or…?”

“No. Such formalities are for council and court functions.”

The young mage nodded her head, frazzled curls bouncing. “Very well.”

They wound their way toward the exit in silence, though the lich easily discerned that the apprentice’s injuries were giving her trouble. Morokei inhaled sharply upon feeling the fresh air as he flung open the iron door. The light was dazzlingly bright, but he did not mind in the slightest. It was _wonderful_. Ofan watched quietly as the ancient dragon priest ran his bony hands over the snow-covered stones. She was unable to imagine how awful it must have been, locked away in a dark crypt for eons!

Morokei closed his eyes in concentration. He felt immense joy at the presence of so many living dragons! And they were not the only beings from his past that stirred. His zeymahhe…his zeymahhe were awakening! It was enheartening, but in truth, there were three life signatures he cared about above all others. Ahzidal’s presence was unmistakable; he was creating quite a bit of chaos! Vahlok was growing more aware, yet another energy sought to block Morokei’s probing. He frowned. Someone or something wished to keep his brother asleep! No matter. The Guardian was not in danger and nothing could defy the will of Alduin for long! Nakhriin’s aura felt incredibly vibrant, almost as though his counterpart was no longer a lich. How strange.

He suddenly glanced over at the pale haired maiden, his raspy voice echoing almost as much as it had in the tomb. “Before aught else, I must call upon my Master and declare that I am able to serve his will once again.”

Ofan had been struggling unsuccessfully to heal up a particularly bad gash on her arm. She searched him, turquoise eyes wide. “Your-Alduin? _The Alduin_? Should I leave?”

Morokei held up a decrepit hand in a placating gesture. “Nay simply remain as silent and reverent as you would within a king’s audience chamber. More so, for great Alduin deserves more adulation than any mortal ruler. He may or may not even appear.”

She nodded, looking a little nervous. Morokei took a deep breath, sending forth his thu’um across the vast landscape. Ofan was frustrated that she only knew a few words of dovahzul. She squinted, searching the afternoon skies for any sign of the legendary black dragon. Just as the young mage was beginning to relax, a roar unlike any other reverberated throughout the stone ruins. Morokei stiffly yet readily bowed on one knee as the massive ebony beast landed before the priest with a resounding thud! Ofan shrank against the stone wall, unable to take her eyes off of the World-Eater. He was magnificent, yes, but also terrifying!

“Alduin, sahrot thur! Zu’u lahney aam!” Morokei declared, keeping his gaze low in deference.

“Morokei, mid sonaak!” The ebony dov greeted, his deep voice vibrating through Ofan’s chest. Suddenly his piercing red gaze fell upon her and she felt the blood drain from her face. “Who is this bronvahdin that flees not from my presence? Aariil?”

Morokei hesitated for a moment. Every mortal that was not a coeval priest was considered subservient. Yet it also seemed ill-mannered to address a woman he barely knew and who had released him from his bonds as a servant.

“Of a sort, Thuri,” he answered, respectfully. “This young mage is responsible for releasing me from Aren’s entrapments.” He paused, then added, “and back into your service. Ofan, you may approach our master.”

 _Our_ master? She thought, even while obeying the lich’s command. Alduin tossed his savagely elegant head, discerning her Kel-touched aura. Along with something else. “Ah, you are of the Sossedov; Dragonblood.”

Both humans were equally surprised! The World-Eater observed Ofan keenly for a few moments, then continued. “I see the colliding currents of Time written in your essence, Malbron. You were not born in this age, but in the eon mortals call the Merethic Era.”

Ofan gaped at him, momentarily forgetting that she was before a monarch like no other! “I-I am? I was? Truly? How do you know?”

Morokei gave her a warning look beneath his mask, half expecting the dovah to snap his jaws at her in rebuke. Fortunately, Alduin seemed to be in an unusually patient mood.

“I am the Firstborn of Akatosh! Devourer of the Souls of Sovengarde! Who may know the tides of Time better than I?” The enormous black dragon declared, lashing his tail for emphasis. The young woman straightened as much as she could, inclining her head. “Forgive me, great one. I-I know not nearly as much as I would like to know.”

Morokei remained tense, but Alduin’s snort sounded rather like a chuckle. “Serve my will in this age faithfully, Ofan Sossedov, and perhaps you shall prove yourself worthy of the true knowledge that only the dov can bestow.”

The lich regarded his master, pleased that Alduin was pleased, but also perplexed. What had inspired such a forgiving, merry mood in the World-Eater? Was he simply joyful at his own return?

“Nahkriin!” Alduin called, his voice and will unhindered by distance when speaking to his own. “Aak Zeymahiil!”

A portal whirled into existence, as though the other dragon priest had been awaiting their king’s call.

“Nahkriin?” Morokei inquired with a softness Ofan had not yet heard from him as the living, breathing man stepped out into the snow.

With his warm russet skin and long mahogany locks, the lich’s counterpart reminded Ofan of the warrior nobles that would oft pass by her home on their way to important cities. This man, however, possessed a power and regal demeanor that they never matched.

“Zeymah,” Nahkriin answered quietly, unshed tears glistening in deep amethyst orbs. “It is time for you to return from undeath.”

Morokei hovered toward his very first friend, before halting and searching their wondrous overlord. Alduin had never promised to raise his priests the way he did his fellow dov. They were granted immortality through becoming lichs, nothing more, nothing less.

The ebony beast gave no reason for this change in his plans. “Remain still. Rebirth is agonizing for mankind.

The ancient priest did not even have time to process his master’s words before Alduin’s shout pulsated through his decaying form!

“Morokei! Slen Tiid Vo!”

The lich hissed in bitter pain, falling to his knees, and dropping the Staff of Magnus! Nahkriin rushed to his brother’s side immediately, though there was not much he could do yet save be a supportive presence.

Morokei’s bony fingers dug deep gouges into the snow as his decrepit body convulsed! He was accustomed to pain; all dragon priests were. They did not earn such coveted positions by being weak or sickly. But the agony that surged through him now was beyond any physical ailment he had ever experienced before! Organs renewed, bones repaired, muscles regrown, ligaments reattached! Morokei had not realized his vocal cords had healed until he heard himself groaning in excruciating torment!

“Mul, zeymah,” Nahkriin encouraged, gritting his teeth in empathy. “It is almost complete.”

He was unable to reply, barely managing to tear the mask from his face as he felt suffocated!

Ofan could not bear to watch! One did not need to be a sensitive or have senses even to feel Morokei’s agony!

It felt like ages had passed, though in reality it was only minutes, before Morokei could finally breathe again. He blinked at not hearing his shriveled lungs rasp. He took another deep breath. The pain was fading swiftly. The snow felt cold on his hands. _His hands._ He peered down at them in astonishment. They were flesh and blood.

“Slowly, zeymah,” Nahkriin cautioned, as Morokei unsteadily rose to his feet. There was no tearing of old skin or grinding of bones against one another. He felt as he had in life…better even. As though he was returned to the prime of youth! He grasped at his raven and azure locks that had long been lost to time. Nahkriin chuckled. “Of course you fret about your hair.”

The reborn priest was unable to keep a few tears from falling from his bright violet eyes. “Zeymah…”

They grasped forearms in a warrior’s greeting.

“All will be well now, brother,” Nahkriin reassured softly, sincerely. “Our master is reordering the world as it should be. And now we are able to aid him fully.”

Ofan remained facing away from the touching reunion. It felt discourteous to intrude on a family moment. She did risk a glance at Alduin, but his expression was unreadable. His body language however seemed protective.

The dragon priests turned toward the Firstborn of Akatosh, and Morokei bowed once more. “Thuri…thank you…I know not what to say.”

The World-Eater spread his great wings. “You have proven your loyalty long ago. I will call when I have need of you. Go now, vanquish your captors in my name! Nahkriin saraan lingrah!”

Whipping up a gale, Alduin soared effortlessly into the air, flying to the east. The portal conjurer began rummaging through a large satchel. “I brought a few supplies for you. You may not feel it for a few days, but your hunger _will_ return with a vengeance!”

“Any news of Durnehviir?” Morokei asked, hopefully.

His counterpart’s gaze fell. “Niid. Krosis, zeymah.”

Morokei nodded wordlessly, bending over to retrieve the Staff with ease. He was flexible again!

Nakhriin smirked faintly as his counterpart began to stretch. “It is wondrous to live, is it not? Even so, cease your preening and put on some clothes! Ahzidal would flay us both alive if I allowed to you to traipse around Skyrim half naked!”

Ofan could not resist peaking over at the dragon priests now. She felt herself blushing. Morokei was rather handsome. Pale, tall and muscular, he cut quite an imposing figure, even with the ancient robes fallen around his waist like a beggar!

Nahkriin dramatically tossed a rich blue robe over his friend, who swore in dovahzul as his pleasant exercise was so rudely disrupted! His fellow priest chuckled. “Be swift, our lord will resurrect more of us soon and I wish to aid them all!”

~ ~ ~

As vain as it sounded, Morokei could hardly handle his amazement with his own face. He had a nose again! And his beard! Trim and healthy! There was life in his eyes and the sun felt glorious upon his skin! The dragon priest kept his sacred mask safely hidden for now. He enjoyed the sensation of the wind for a few moments before returning to his ally and the young mage. It appeared that Nahkriin had healed the worst of her wounds and was in the midst of explaining dragon society to a very eager listener!

“Such greetings seem violent to us but speak volumes to the dov themselves; they can discern much about one another through a single shout.” His deep amethyst flickered over to meet Morokei’s bright violet ones.

“You fit the part of an ordinary mage well. Try not to drain everyone in Winterhold until you are certain that they cannot serve any purpose under Lord Alduin’s reign.”

Morokei smiled faintly. “You know me so well.”

His intense gaze met Ofan’s pensive one. “Let us hold tinvaak with the archmage, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Firstborn himself appears!
> 
> Aproximate Dovahzul Translations:
> 
> Dovah = Dragon  
> Dovahhe = Dragons  
> Dov = Dragonkind  
> Zeymah = Brother  
> Zeymahhe = Brothers  
> Sonaak = Dragon Priest  
> Malbron = Little Nord.  
> Aariil = Your slave (that serves out of duty or loyalty)  
> Thuri = My Lord  
> Aak Zeymahiil = Guide Your Brother  
> Tinvaak = Speech


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ofan warns Morokei about the malevolent policies of the Thalmor. Canonically they're a super racist bunch, basically elf Nazis, so possible trigger warning.

Ofan felt rather queasy after travelling through Nahkriin’s portal but did her best to hide it. Morokei stood beside her on the lonely expanse of icy road south of Winterhold, surveying their surroundings intently. Her mind burned with questions, but the young mage remained quiet, studying him with concern. The ancient priest had just returned from death…undeath…and was already prepping for a confrontation with an entire college of mages. There were few students left and most of the professors struck her as incompetent, but was a battle so soon after resurrection truly a wise plan? Would there even be a skirmish? She hoped not, for the Dragon Cult was not known for its mercy and Professor Tolfdir and his class, at least, seemed kindly and honest.

Ofan bit her lip, then finally broke the silence. “The town is not far, but there is not much to see. Would you like to take a few moments and-” She struggled to find words that would not sound patronizing, “erm, talk?”

She mentally facepalmed. _Well put, Ofan! He will probably think you are an idiot!_

Morokei arched an eyebrow and the maiden’s next words came out in a rush! “I mean, you were trapped for so long! So much has changed…I need not tell you that, I apologize! It is just, Winterhold’s Jarl hates magic, the Stormcloaks and the Empire are waging war, and the Thalmor are horrible to everyone who is not a part of the Dominion.” Her turquoise eyes flickered in thought. “…I do not think any of the books I am carrying will be helpful to you…”

She looked embarrassed, but the dragon priest gave her a slight yet sincere smile. “The error is mine, Ofan Sossedov. I am unused to voicing my thoughts aloud or sharing plans with another. Krosis.” She relaxed a little and he gestured northward, his velvety baritone slicing through the frigid air. “Shall we speak as we travel? Far too much is overheard in minor settlements.”

The apprentice mage nodded, having to practically run to keep up with his naturally long strides.

“Tell me about Winterhold,” Morokei said, keeping a watchful eye on their snow-covered surroundings.

“Most of the city fell into the Sea of Ghosts seventy-seven…no, _seventy-nine_ years ago,” Ofan began. “Most blame the college, but the professors believe the eruption of the Red Mountain in Morrowind was the cause. Regardless of the truth, most of the city remains derelict. Korir is the prejudiced Jarl and he fully supports the Stormcloak rebellion against the Empire from Cyrodiil.”

Morokei’s keen gaze fell upon her. “And what caused this rebellion against the…Cyrodilic Empire?”

“A great deal,” Ofan replied, pondering the best way to explain. “There is a sect of Altmer and Bosmer elves that comprise the Aldmeri Dominion known as the Thalmor, like the mage that tried to kill me. I only know what I have read, seen, experienced, and what they themselves have proclaimed. The Thalmor believe in the superiority of mer over man and eventually want all of mankind dead so they may ascend to divinity or something horrid like that. They despise that the dragonborn Tiber Septim, also known as Talos, was made a divine alongside the Eight, because he was a ‘mere Atmoran’.”

Morokei’s violet orbs glittered in amusement. “They adore Auri-El yet still deny the true superiority of Akatosh’s children and his chosen… how ironic. Continue.”

“Maybe Talos’s transformation further hinders their ascension? Maybe they are cross that he proves how untrue their supposed supremacy is? I do not know. Long story short, once the Cyrodilic Empire signed a treaty with the Thalmor after the Great War between their factions, worship of Tiber Septim was banned. That was the final insult for Ulfric Stormcloak it would seem, and he founded a rebellion of like-minded Nords to fight the newly formed alliance. And I use the term alliance loosely,” she added, fidgeting with an unruly curl. “Even the _diplomatic Thalmor_ can barely hide their disdain for anyone of a different race than their ‘exceptional mer bloodline’!”

The tinge of aggravation in her tone drew the ancient priest’s attention once more. “And what do you think of this conflict, malvahdin?”

“It is foolish!” The petite woman exclaimed, clearly having bottled up her true feelings about such matters for a while. “The treaty oppressing religious freedom is appalling, but the Thalmor themselves are far, far worse. The Stormcloaks should be saving their strength for when the war between elves and men begins anew. The peace treaty is not going to last long, even the Imperials despise those genocidal high elves! Instead of preparing for a second Great War in secret, Ulfric decided to start an outright rebellion. From what many locals have said, the Empire turned a blind eye to private worship of Talos until the Stormcloaks drew the attention of the Aldmeri Dominion, who in turn threatened the Empire. Then Thalmor agents began kidnapping and torturing innocents and matters in Skyrim have been growing more and more difficult for her people!”

Morokei paused, turning to fully face her, intrigued. “There is an underlying ire in your words that is greater than mere investment in the strategies of war and politics of rulers.”

Ofan stopped beside him, sighing wearily. “Truthfully, Morokei, the Stormcloaks are just as prejudiced as the Thalmor. Granted, they do not preach the genocide of non-Nords, not yet, but they do nothing to aid or defend those of different races within their holds. Even if women and children are in danger! It is aggravating how hypocritical they can be and how blind they are to it! I simply do not understand hating a stranger so deeply for their race and race alone, with no knowledge of who they are or what they have endured. It is so unfair…”

The dragon priest tilted his head, testing her. “If you cannot bear hypocrisy, why are you studying under a coward like Savos Aren?”

The young mage blinked at him, then her shoulders drooped further. “I always thought him to be a very lackadaisical teacher, but I had no idea what he did to his own friends until I saw their memories and then their enslaved spirits…” Her turquoise gaze flickered downward in thought. “The College of Winterhold is the only place where they teach magic freely in Skyrim; present day Nords do not hold the arcane arts in the same high regard as they did during your… _our_ time. Still, I would rather learn on my own than under the archmage’s authority after what Labyrinthian revealed.”

Ofan glanced upward at the priest’s silence, but he had already turned away, once again inspecting the forlorn wilds. “You will not be without instruction,” Morokei finally replied. “You are of the Sossedov. You belong with the followers of Thuru Alduin.”

The petite maiden stared at him quizzically, pale curls shimmering. “Was-was that your cryptic way of initiating me into the Dragon Cult?”

“Proving loyalty and earning a place among the order is quite an intensive process,” the priest began, “but our master himself approved of you.” His piercing gaze met her inquisitive one. “And perhaps you were one of us already. I believe I owe you a dagger examination.”

Ofan handed him the weapon, the curved blade glittering coldly in the morning light. Morokei inspected the hilt with a practiced eye. Ofan watched him eagerly, frowning a little when he frowned. “…Morokei?”

“This is indubitably one of Dwiininhus’s creations, for neither man nor mer could surpass his skill in the shaping of sacred blades. This chaotic enchantment however is very peculiar.” He gave the dagger back swiftly, but his rich voice was sincere. “Zeymahi Ahzidal will be able to discern the exact wielder of this blade. I know not when he will be reborn, but I will remember to seek aakii. I give you my word.”

She offered him a grateful smile as she returned the dagger to its scabbard. “Thank you, Morokei. Truly.” The young maiden hesitated, trying to contain her curiosity, then asked, “…is this the Ahzidal you referred to?”

The newly resurrected priest arched an eyebrow at the inconspicuous book she grabbed from her travel stained satchel. He blinked upon reading the title. Ahzidal’s Descent…

He quickly flipped through the pages, his incredulous expression turning solemn. “Yes, malvahdin. This book claims to have chronicled the life of my Zeymahzin. Are there more such tomes in circulation?”

She nodded as she removed two more books from her bag, offering them freely. “Amongst the Draugr seems to only pose theories about lichdom in the Dragon Cult and the draugr, obviously, but the Guardian and the Traitor speaks of a great battle.”

She watched inquisitively as he zealously flipped through the pages of the larger tome. “Vahlok,” Morokei said softly to himself, his tone surprisingly fond. “He would be utterly embarrassed at having a book written about any of his deeds.”

The dragon priest’s earnest lilac orbs met the maiden’s gentle turquoise ones.

“Keep them, please!” Ofan said swiftly, before he could even give voice to his inquiry. She grinned. “I ask only that you reveal truth from myth once you have finished reading so that I can cease wondering!”

He returned the smile. “Paaz. A fair trade.” He straightened as he placed all three books in his own leather satchel. He needed to focus. The pair resumed their journey in silence until the shadow of the massive college building loomed on the horizon.

“This magic fearing Jarl,” Morokei began, “does he harbor the same disdain for foreign mages as he does for those he deems responsible for his city’s downfall?” The fair-haired woman thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. He dislikes all magic users but holds a particularly deep-rooted hatred for the college.”

Morokei smirked ever so slightly. “Excellent. He will not be difficult to bend.”

Ofan regarded him carefully. “May I be privy to your plan?”

He placed a large, yet not domineering, hand upon her dainty shoulder. “I think it is time for your justified misgivings about the Thalmor to be made known unto Korir.”


	4. Chapter 4

The Jarl of Winterhold was lounging on his throne when the newest addition to his court stumbled into the longhouse. The young woman was covered in dirt, ice, and dried blood. She was accompanied by a tall man in rich mage’s attire.

“Thane Ofan?” He inquired with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

“A member of the Thalmor tried to kill me,” she answered, honestly.

“The Thalmor!?” Korir exclaimed, leaning forward in his seat. “Here?”

“He was from the college, my jarl,” Ofan replied, brushing an unruly curl away from her face. She glanced up at her companion. “Morokei saved my life.”

The brusque Nord examined the pale man apprehensively. There was something…dangerous about him. More so than the practice of magic and his possession of an ornate staff. “Well met, traveler.” His gaze went back to the petite woman. “Of course the wretched wizards would house those bloody high elves! But why were they after you?”

“If I may, my jarl,” Morokei interjected, “what reason would they need other than she believes in a free Skyrim and is a member of your court?”

His velvety baritone was reassuring, persuasive, the very sound of enchantment.

Korir gestured to the tall man's azure touched locks. “You speak like a true son of Skyrim, yet you don't look like one.”

“Alas, a side effect of Aren's imprisonment!” Morokei bemoaned, rather dramatically gesturing to a shimmering tress. “A permanent reminder of justice unfulfilled.”

Korir frowned. “Aren? The blasted archmage? What crime did he commit against you?”

Ofan blinked, surprised that Morokei had caught the Jarl’s interest so swiftly, even with his natural charisma and mesmerizing tone. The jarl’s wife Thaena and his advisors regarded the ancient priest with rapt attention also.

“Not against me alone, your grace,” Morokei corrected, his demeanor a perfect blend of humility and sorrow. “But against his own allies as well.”

Murmurs filled the court and the Jarl scoffed. “That is hardly surprising. What happened?”

"I was meditating in Labyrinthian's greatest barrow. Troubling rumors had reached me regarding members of the college disturbing the rest of my forefathers for nothing more than amusement. _Amusement_!" The dragon priest thundered, causing the wooden floorboards to tremble beneath their feet. "I discovered the traitorous elf at the heart of the tomb, having already desecrated numerous shrines! I challenged Aren and his accomplices to battle, but rather than face me, the _oh so honorable_ archmage cast a curse upon his friends! He enslaved their very souls to forever imprison me within Labyrinthian!"

More exclamations sounded throughout the longhouse. Those within were both intimidated and in awe of Morokei, but their mutual distrust of the college held sway over all other thoughts or misgivings.

“First the college destroys our home, then they want to defile the graves of our ancestors?” Thaena exclaimed, indignantly. “Not to mention sending those murderous high elves after a young girl! What evil will they plan next?”

Korir however was stuck on one particular concept. “Aren-Aren enslaved _souls_?”

"It is true, my jarl," Ofan confirmed softly, sincerely. "I saw the enthralled mages myself. It was horrid..."

Even the stoic guards shifted uncomfortably and Morokei moved to place a hand on the petite maiden's shoulder. "If not for your intrepid courtesan, I would be languishing in the barrow still, and the extent of Aren's crimes would remain unknown."

Korir nodded slowly. "Thane Ofan has always shown that she truly cares about Winterhold, despite her wanderings within the college. I assume you want revenge, justifiably so. How do you plan on luring that traitor Savos out of his accursed domain?"

"Grant me your blessing and I will meet him on his own ground and rid his wicked influence from Winterhold myself," the ancient priest replied, allowing genuine hatred of Aren to fill his voice. “I need only an escort of guards to the beginning of the bridge to show the town your approval. Afterwards, I will proceed alone.”

“Not alone,” Ofan declared in a soft, yet firm manner.

She felt Morokei’s violet eyes rest upon her for a moment, but the chestnut-haired Jarl looked uncertain. “My men will not be harmed?”

“I swear it. No true son of Skyrim should die at the hands of treacherous mer!” Morokei answered, passionately.

“Hear, hear!” Thaena said as Korir’s courtiers also voiced their gusty Nord approval! Even Ofan wondered how much was of this speech was genuine and how much was playacting, such was the power of dragon priest’s voice!

“Winterhold was once the seat of power in Skyrim,” Morokei continued, his charming tone filled with compassion. “Why should it not be again? With Aren gone and his lapdogs subdued, naught will stand in your way of making this city which you love so dearly flourish once more.”

Korir nodded once more, fully convinced. “Yes…yes, you’re right!” He rose from his wooden throne, gesturing to the guard captain. “Gather your men to accompany our kinsman and Thane Ofan to the broken bridge. Make certain that none of the mages can escape or attack our homes!”

“Yes, my jarl!” The captain replied, moving swiftly to carry out his orders!

Morokei smiled inwardly. Convincing Korir had been even easier than he first anticipated. “It is time for the archmage to pay for his transgressions against our fair Skyrim.”

Without another word he strode out of the longhouse, his long ebony locks billowing behind him. Ofan followed swiftly, remaining silent until she was certain they could not be overheard by any passersby. “I knew not you were so masterful with words.”

“The intricacies of vocal illusion can be arduous to grasp, but the key is to tell your listeners what _they_ desire to hear. What aligns with _their_ beliefs, logical or no. Utilizing half-truths and sincere emotions will aid in bending their minds to your will as well.”

Ofan’s turquoise eyes flickered in thought. She smiled a little, trying to calm her own growing nerves. “You should have been a thespian.”

Morokei arched a chiseled eyebrow. “Rather brazen of you to assume that I am not.”

Ofan laughed a bit, softly. Morokei was surprisingly easy to converse with. She straightened. “I know it is not within my right to ask this of you, but spare Professor Tolfdir and his students, please. He is kind and wise. I do not dare to presume what traits Lord Alduin favors in his followers, but Tolfdir’s knowledge will be boon rather than a bother. His students too, are innocent. They simply desired to study magic in peace, as I did.”

The dragon priest regarded her. “I seek only Aren, but any who defy the will of Alduin must be destroyed.”

“I know,” she replied softly, anxiously twirling a hapless blonde tress. “I ask only that they be given a chance.”

“If they submit unto the rightful rule of the dov, there will be no need for hostilities,” Morokei assured her. “Dissenters are punished, certainly, but loyalty is praised and well rewarded.”

They paused at the arched entrance of the extensive yet frightfully narrow and damaged stone bridge.

A contingent of guards joined them a few moments later and Ofan’s heart sank when she saw Arniel Gane waltzing down the bridge toward them. Out of all the faculty members they could have met first, why did it have to be him?

“What is the meaning of this?” The conjurer demanded, glaring at the guards.

“Savos Aren has committed crimes against Skyrim and her people,” the captain began. “By order of the Jarl, he is under arrest. Move along.”

“I most certainly will not!” Gane cried incredulously. “This is outrageous!”

“Arniel, please,” Ofan insisted, not wanting to see him harmed. “Savos is not the upstanding leader we thought he was.”

“I don’t care!” The man shouted. “Aren’t you supposed to be a student here? You have no authority over the archmage, and the Jarl definitely has no right to-”

“Stand aside!” Morokei commanded, towering over the Breton, unimpressed. “It is a perilous decision to waste my time…”

“You don’t scare me!” Arniel declared, swinging a fist wildly at the dragon priest!

Morokei adeptly caught the man’s fist in a grip of iron, twisting Gane around and bending his arm with a sickening _crack_! He tossed the screaming Breton at the feet of the captain with all the nonchalance and disgust of discarding rotten vegetables. “Take him. He shall be unable to cast spells within his cell now.”

The guards performed his bidding as the ancient priest boldly stepped onto the bridge, Ofan once again having to hurry in order to keep pace!

“Thank you for trying,” she said, her tone genuine yet sad as she tried not to think about the sound Arniel’s broken limb had made.

Morokei scoffed, though his frustration was not with her. “I do not understand why you expect reason from them. Cease putting faith into such fools, malvahdin. They will continuously disappoint you.”

The were halfway across the bridge when Morokei abruptly paused, tightening his grip on the staff of Magnus. It was being drawn to something potent within the school. Could it be?

The young woman glanced at him in concern, then her gaze went to the staff, which was faintly glowing.

“It must be reacting to the Eye…” she whispered, concerned.

“The Eye of Magnus,” Morokei murmured, straightening as she nodded. His original plan to free Durnehviir was not lost!

Ofan saw a myriad of emotions cross the dragon priest’s fair face, from realization to hope to determination and even joy! Perhaps she would ask him about it later. Morokei redirected his attention to the mission at hand. Neither Miraak nor Savos Aren would stand in his way now!

~ ~ ~

“J’zargo, while I admire your initiative in creating your own fireball scrolls, please stop asking other students to test them,” Tolfdir said, as he finished healing an understandably upset Onmund’s arm.

The Khajiit chuckled sheepishly. “This one will be more careful from now on.”

Onmund did not believe a word his fellow pupil had said, but the young Nord simply sighed and thanked Tolfdir for the healing. J’zargo playfully punched him in the shoulder, which was rewarded with a flabbergasted death glare! The dunmer student Brelyna simply ignored the boys’ antics, quietly watching the archmage. He was conversing with Mirabelle Ervine before the Eye of Magnus, his back facing the grand doors to the courtyard.

“I continue to hear things about dragon sightings in Skyrim,” Mirabelle reported.

“Dragons?” Savos repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Well, that's fascinating. We should have someone look into that.”

“Would you like me to send someone? Faralda or Phinis, perhaps?"

“I'll think about it,” the archmage lackadaisically replied, turning his attention back to the Eye once again.

The doors opened behind him, but the dunmer paid little heed, for students and faculty came and went from the Hall of Elements often. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and chills go down his spine. How odd. Suddenly a deep voice all too reminiscent of the one that still haunted his nightmares reverberated throughout the circular chamber.

**_“Did you miss me, Aren? My old friend?”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Arniel trying to punch Morokei is a reference to the awkward moments in game where, instead of using conjuration magic in combat, he only uses his fists. HIS FISTS! 
> 
> Sorry I haven't posted in a while! New job has very long hours. But time to write is a welcome source of joy!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's cut content dialogue where Savos Aren's ghost actually interacts with the player in Labyrinthian! I used some of it here to convey Aren's feelings. I recommend looking up the entire unused scene, it's fascinating!

“No-no! Impossible!” The archmage stammered, staring into the cold, moonstone mask of the dragon priest. “I sealed you away!”

"Yes..." Morokei's velvety baritone seemed to rise from the depths of Oblivion itself. "You did imprison me...after disturbing my rest and that of my faithful followers in the first place! After pressuring your frightened classmates to venture further into forbidden Labyrinthian!”

“Archmage...?” Mirabelle inquired apprehensively while simultaneously entering a combat-ready stance. “What is going on?”

Savos struggled to find an answer as he gazed upon the very manifestation of his worst nightmares, red eyes wide in terror. Ofan stood off to the former lich's left, observing the confrontation with a pensive expression.

“Tell her, Aren...” the dragon priest's voice was a velvety purr. “Reveal unto your adoring professors and naive students the arcane technique for enslaving the free souls of one's peers.”

The students’ eyes were wide and Tolfdir looked confused. He did not display hostility as openly as Mirabelle, but he was on high alert. Savos stood rigidly in place as the slits of the remorseless sonaak helm bore into his very soul.

“Does my mask trouble you?” Morokei asked, mockingly. “Let it not be said that Durnehviir's glorious pupil is discourteous.”

With a flourish, he removed the dreadful helm to reveal a surprisingly comely face, despite the faint smirk that graced his lips. Brelyna inhaled sharply in consternation. The ancient Nord's glittering orbs were the color of vibrant purple mountain flowers, though far brighter. She had never seen a human with such brilliant, fell eyes. Onmund and J'zargo kept looking back and forth between the dragon priest and the Archmage, bewildered. Mirabelle's tense gaze flickered between the ancient Nord and the Dunmer as well.

“Archmage?” She inquired again, eying the Staff of Magnus shimmering in the bold intruder's grip. Aren remained unmoving.

“Girduin,” Morokei began, his baritone as cold as the icy winds that howled outside. “Evali. Takes-In-Light. Hafnar. Atmah. Promising proteges of the college. So woefully arrogant and ambitious. Seeking power that was beyond their right.” The dragon priest nonchalantly twirled the aedric staff as he slowly paced before his enemy. His voice and demeanor, however, were anything but lackadaisical. “ _You_ invaded _my_ tomb. _You_ attempted to slaughter my followers. _You_ sought to steal the artifacts and the knowledge written, forged and gathered by my people. And yet you still have pahlok, _the audacity_ , to stand before your own gullible community while feigning ignorance!” His piercing eyes possessed a fell glow akin to an angry daedra’s.

Savos labored to form a response and Mirabelle was ready to attack the intruder! Tolfdir, by contrast, remained calm. Outwardly anyway. He was well aware that only the most powerful and elite members of the Dragon Cult received unique masks like unto the stranger’s. There was precious little information in the library regarding the identities of those favored by the dragons. But if this man was truly from Labyrinthian, or Bromjunaar as it was known unto the Cult, he was most likely one of three legendary figures: Nahkriin, Morokei, or Volsung. The alteration professor knew that, even together, they stood no chance against such a being. And he was determined to keep his students alive by any means necessary!

“You’re lying!” Mirabelle challenged, moving protectively before the petrified Dunmer!

Morokei discerned the spells she conjured in her hands, the wards she cast around her body and he was unimpressed. He glanced at Ofan, purposefully leaving himself open to attack. “Which one of your _prestigious professors_ is this, malvahdin?”

“Mirabelle Ervine,” the petite mage answered, tense and vigilant. “The Master Wizard.”

The ancient priest laughed, a devastating yet oddly hypnotic sound. “How far the study of magic has fallen in fair Keizaal!” His steely gaze leveled on Ervine. “Such loyalty. A pity it is so misguided.”

He conjured a powerful storm spell within his left hand, but Ofan spoke up again, interrupting the impending strike!

“Lord Morokei is not lying,” she said in a tumultuous voice. “I saw the souls of Hafnar and Atmah myself! They were unceasingly casting a barrier and were unresponsive until attacked.”

Ofan looked at the archmage, turquoise eyes pleading. “I-I saw the echoes of memory with you and your classmates. It was awful…” Her gaze suddenly sharpened. “You pretended to have no knowledge of the Staff when Professor Tolfdir and I inquired after it, even while saying that we should investigate! Why would you deceive us so?”

Savos took a breath and kept his eyes on Ofan and Mirabelle, even while Morokei’s unrelenting glare made his skin crawl.

“I-I never meant for any of what happened at Labyrinthian,” the Dunmer stammered, finally finding his voice. “Tried to seal it up, lock it away forever. But now it all comes out again. I-I don’t know why I pressed the others on, convinced them to keep going. If we can just make it through, it’ll all be worth it, I told them. And the fools believed the words I myself didn’t trust. What happened after was my fault. All mine.”

Utter silence had fallen on the hall save for the whirling energy of the Eye of Magnus. Savos was wringing his hands, staring at the floor. “When we came upon the final chamber, we all knew this was the end. Without even opening the door, we knew what was behind it would kill us. None of our spells were potent enough, none of our wills were strong enough. No matter what, we stay together, Hafnar had said. I looked him in the eyes and lied to him.”

He met Mirabelle and Tolfdir’s dismayed stares, his voicing breaking. “I had no choice, don’t you see? I had to leave them behind, had to sacrifice them so I could make it out alive. If we’d all died there, if we’d loosed this-” he caught himself and chose his words more carefully. “-priest of dragons on the world, who knows what might have happened? That’s how I consoled myself for years, after I’d sealed Labyrinthian shut and vowed never to let anyone open it.”

The forlorn archmage looked at Ofan. “I see it was all in vain, now. But how…why-why are you still alive?” Aren risked a glance at the former lich, who glowered at him still.

“Ofan did not enter dii vul junaar with pahlok, nor the intention of thievery,” Morokei replied, violet eyes flashing. “But we have held tinvaak long enough, Aren.”

With the speed of a striking serpent he hurled a paralysis spell at the hapless archmage, causing the Dunmer to collapse in a frozen heap! Morokei then slammed the butt of the Staff of Magnus on the ground, cracking the stonework and startling the college mages! His wrathful orbs met each of their frightened and overwhelmed gazes. “Thuri Alduin claims dominion here. Yield to his divine authority and I will show you mercy. Rebel, and your corpses shall decorate the walls of your precious sanctuary and be left to rot.”

Ofan gave her fellow students an imploring look. Brelyna nodded subtly, understanding. Her friend was not trying to get them to forsake their personal beliefs or hold a We Love Alduin parade. She simply wanted to keep them alive until they had a chance to escape! J’zargo and Onmund discerned this as well and remained respectfully silent, although they feared what the ancient priest would do to the archmage. Tolfdir carefully approached the imperious sonaak, keeping his tone neutral. “We want no quarrel with you or the World-Eater, I can assure you of that! However, there is one person here we have no control over, the Thalmor ambassador Ancano.”

“The fool who sought to have Ofan assassinated?” Morokei said, arching a sculpted eyebrow. “Leave him to me.”

The elderly Nord blinked. “He tried to _what_?”

“Fret not, Professor Tolfdir,” the young woman said, softly, making a point to address him by name. “Lord Morokei turned the would-be slayer into dust.”

The alteration teacher studied the former lich, who observed him in turn. “Ofan assures me that your expertise would be a boon unto our Order,” Morokei stated bluntly.

“Well, I won’t presume to know what sort of information such an ancient society desires, but I’m happy to help where I can,” Tolfdir answered honestly.

Savos Aren coughed violently as the spell wore off, trembling on the cold floor. While the former lich was distracted, Mirabelle seized her chance!

“Savos, run!” She cried, hurling two massive ice spears at the dragon priest!

“Mirabelle, no!” Savos cried, but he was too late! The projectiles shattered harmlessly against the sorcerer whose wards were far beyond the present age. Morokei whirled around, eyes blazing in ire!

“Mey!” He exclaimed! “ **Rii vaaz zol**!”

A blinding flash of arcane energy tore through the master wizard’s body, rending her very soul asunder! The others watched in horror as her corpse slowly rose as an undead thrall under Morokei’s control.

“Does anyone else seek to challenge me?” He shouted, angrily.

Not a sound was uttered.

“Pruzah,” the priest growled, seizing Aren by the back of his neck and tossing him toward the door as if he weighed nothing. “Move. I feel the presence of Thuri Viinturuth approaching. He will wish to look upon you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximate Dovahzul translations:
> 
> dii vul junaar = my dark kingdom  
> Pahlok = Arrogance  
> Tinvaak = speech  
> Mey = fool  
> Pruzah = good  
> Thuri = my lord


	6. Chapter 6

“ **Faas Ru Maar!** ” Viinturuth’s devasting voice echoed throughout the town, his indomitable command sending the mortals scattering! With mighty wingbeats he soared above the college, alighting himself on the encircling alure to the left of the Hall of Elements. He arched his neck proudly, pleased as the joor in the courtyard followed Morokei’s example in kneeling before him.

“Rise, Glorious One!” The emerald dragon commanded. “Thuru Alduin is pleased with your swift victory.” He eyed the husk of Mirabelle and snorted. “Durnehviir taught you well, despite your fleeting time under aakii.”

Morokei rose while the rest stayed kneeling, although Ofan risked a glance upward at Viinturuth. He was what Viintaas had referred to as a blood dragon, but the beast looming above them seemed larger than the typical blood dov that roamed around Skyrim. His dorsal fins were lined with rich black stripes and his yellow eyes glittered with cunning.

“Thank you, thuri,” Morokei replied, relaxing a bit even while maintaining a reverent demeanor. He had always felt more comfortable with Nahkriin’s patron than most of the other overlords. Viinturuth was uncompromising in following Alduin’s law, unforgiving of dissidents, but fair and even friendly to the loyalists that earned his respect. “There are still possible foes within the college grounds. I shall sort the wheat from the chaff promptly.”

Viinturuth tilted his head, as if listening. He glanced toward the tower of the Hall of Countenance, then unleashed his terrible shout of dismay once more!

“ **Faas Ru Maar**!”

The group outside cowered, though the dreadful decree was not aimed at them, and only Morokei’s stoic presence kept Ofan from trembling. She still flinched however when the dov’s booming voice caused the very ground beneath their feet to tremble.

“Nikriin joor, I know you hear me! Come forth from your hiding place lest I bring it down upon your shameful heads! Nahkriin saraan lingrah!”

Brelyna sighed with relief when the remaining professors came quietly, confused and terrified though they were. She wanted no more bloodshed this day and doubted very much that any of them could best the tall priest, much less the dragon!

Morokei allowed a small smile as he looked toward the emerald overlord. “Well, that is one way to ensure their obedience, thuri. You never did waste time during the war.”

Viinturuth chuckled with a swish of his long tail. “Neither did you. One of the many reasons dii mid sonaak enjoyed fighting by your side.”

Morokei inclined his head, his velvety voice sincere. “You honor me, thuri.” He was careful not to let his face reveal how much such a compliment meant to him. Dragons could read the eyes and aura well enough and his feelings were no business of anyone else here! He glanced over at Ofan, straightening a little as he could tell from her gentle expression that she had discerned his emotions quiet clearly!

Viinturuth followed Morokei’s gaze, scenting the air. “Rise and approach me, Sossedov. You were the one to free nonvul Morokei, yes?”

She nodded, carefully meeting the dragon’s keen yellow stare.

Nahkriin’s patron gestured with his fearsome head toward the shivering Archmage. “You know Morokei’s hokoron?”

Ofan’s expression fell. “Forgive me, my lord, but I understand naught in lovely Dovahzul save for a few words…”

“Paak!” The emerald creature exclaimed, startling all save the dragon priest. “Whosoever raised you neglected the most important part of a dragonblood’s education! That shall be remedied.” His shimmering tail lashed in a wide arc as he spoke. “Hokoron means enemy, little one.”

The pale haired maiden bowed her head in acquiescence. “Then yes, great one, I do.”

Tolfdir admired how Ofan’s kept her composure despite her nerves. He noticed that the ancient priest was studying her as well.

“Pruzah, good,” Viinturuth replied. “then you shall advise Morokei on the most just method of execution for this modern age.”

Ofan paled but remained silent. The emerald dragon regarded the second group of joor who still shrank before their tower, searching for resistance. There. Without warning he swept down with a rush of wind into the small courtyard, snapping up both Enthir and Phinis Gestor in powerful jaws! With a great gulp they were gone, save for a spray of blood upon the snow and the horrified mages. Viinturuth returned to his perch, arching his neck once more.

“Let that be a warning to all who defy the will of Alduin,” He growled. “Dov are not blind to your hearts and minds. Heed sonaak Morokei, for he speaks with the voice of our master.”

His glinting orbs met the priest’s violet ones. “Mu fent uth mid aar vosaraan.”

Morokei inclined his head. “Yes, thuri.”

“Thuru Alduin shall join you soon. He wishes to see the Eye for himself. But he has business on Solstheim.”

The ancient priest’s head shot up. “Vahlok?” He inquired softly, unable to keep the hope from his tone.

Ofan could have sworn Viinturuth gave the dragon version of a kind smile. “Yes, mid sonaak. The Guardian shall walk Keizaal once more.” He growled. “For the Traitor may soon do so as well.”

“He will not escape death again!” Morokei declared, the sudden volume and hatred in his voice startling everyone save the dragon. “Mora is a capricious master. He will not intervene a second time.”

“Nahkriin and Krosis share your sentiments,” Viinturuth said, eyeing the joor that surrounded them. “We shall speak of such matters later. Farewell, Morokei. May your thu’um grow ever stronger.”

The ebony haired man bowed fully as the emerald dragon took to the skies, letting loose a final, dreadful roar over Winterhold. Morokei straightened, whirling around to face both groups of traumatized college mages. His discerning amethyst eyes seemed to look through them as they slowly rose to their feet. “I do not see Ancano.”

“He is most likely hiding in the Archmage’s quarters,” Tolfdir said, watching Aren with a worried expression.

“Hah! A fitting place for cowards,” Morokei scoffed, adeptly casting another paralysis spell on Savos. He glanced at the alteration teacher. “Send your most competent people to seize him. I want him alive.”

Tolfdir nodded slowly. “As you wish.”

The former lich began pacing around the frozen mer with all the grace and intensity of a saber-toothed cat. “I have anticipated this moment for what seemed an interminable count of days, Aren…” He growled, clutching the Staff of Magnus.

Tolfdir sent the Altmer destruction instructor Faralda and the Dunmer illusion professor Drevis to search for Ancano before returning to his distressed students. He saw Ofan wince when Morokei’s voice suddenly boomed across the keep. “What sort of execution would send the proper message to the rebels of this era, malvahdin? Has being flayed alive truly lost its compelling effect on the masses?”

The petite woman gathered her thoughts, then finally spoke. “Death is too swift for what Savos Aren has done unto you and your followers, Lord Morokei.”

Onmund gaped at her in shock but J’zargo simply watched. The khajiit had a hunch about where their fellow apprentice was going with her suggestion.

“There is a vast array of tortures that can inflict brutal punishment while forcing the guilty to stay alive for days,” the ancient priest replied, glancing at Ofan almost quizzically. “Surely even a spirit as temperate as yours is aware of this?”

“But that penalty does not fit what he did to _you_ ,” she insisted, approaching the towering Nord. She met his violet gaze with confidence, her words sincere. “Let Savos Aren experience the isolation you endured while imprisoned. Let him feel the helplessness his classmates surely did as they were betrayed. Do not free him by executing him, my lord; incarcerate him.”

Morokei frowned at first, but his expression became thoughtful as he mulled her idea over. Ofan was careful not to meet Savos’s gaze as the broken archmage stared up at her. He knew that, despite freeing the monster, she was trying to save him from terrible torment. The sonaak regarded the stone pavilion at the center of the alure and his eyes gleamed with a fell light.

“An interesting proposal, malvahdin,” He said, his unrelenting gaze falling upon his former jailer. “I believe the college already possesses the perfect place for a fitting cell.”

~ ~ ~

Korir could not help but smirk at the sight of the Savos Aren suspended in a large energy orb above the grand entrance to his own college. He stood within the cursed courtyard for the first and only time, but it was worth it for that spectacle alone. He disliked magic, always would, but if it must be practiced, let it be used like that! He smiled at the Nord in the rich blue robes, who stood beside Thane Ofan as the once proud mages meekly went about their business. He had truly humbled them.

“Well done, well done indeed!” The Jarl praised. “You have accomplished what no one else dared to do! Even repelling a dragon attack. Join my court tonight for a feast in your honor!”

Morokei inwardly sighed. True, he missed the respect his position afforded, but he was also weary of having to be so polite to commoners who played at royalty and knew nothing of his beloved dov. Even so, he kept a diplomatic expression and a charming tone.

“I cannot celebrate yet I fear, for there is much yet to be done to stabilize the magic within the college, though I am honored by your invitation.” The former lich beckoned to someone across the courtyard. “Perhaps this gift will suffice until I am able to accept your generous hospitality.”

Korir’s brow furrowed in curiosity as he followed the lich’s gaze. Drevis and J’zargo dragged a bound and gagged Ancano toward the jarl.

“This is the Thalmor fool that sought to murder your thane and manipulate the mages for his own agenda,” Morokei said, regarding Korir intently. “I know not if he has valuable intelligence to the Stormcloak cause, but it is my sincerest hope that he proves useful.”

Korir laughed heartily! “Hah! If only half of our kinsmen had your initiative, we’d have already sent the Empire fleeing back to Cyrodiil with their tails between their legs!” He declared, clapping an unsuspecting Morokei heartily on the back! Ofan had to bite her lip to keep from snickering at the priest’s ruffled expression. A sudden wave of nausea gave her pause. How odd.

Winterhold’s ruler gestured for two of his five guards to step forward and seize the elf. Morokei had reassembled a proper, courtly expression, inclining his head when Korir looked at him again. “Allow me to banish the snow to ease your journey across the bridge, my jarl.”

The red-haired Nord canted his head. “Eh? What did you say?”

Morokei simply stepped onto the stone span, standing unmoved by the bitter winds.

“ **Lok vah koor**!” His indomitable command echoed across the town!

“The thu’um, he summons the thu’um!” A guard cried simultaneously with Korir’s own exclamation. “By the gods, that’s a shout!”

The jarl gaped at the ancient priest. “Did you study with the Greybeards?”

 _The who? What sort of guild is named for their facial hair?_ Morokei thought to himself before replying. “Indeed.”

“Just like Jarl Ulfric!” Ofan added, helpfully.

“Yes,” the once lich agreed, smoothly adding, “a pity we were never properly introduced.”

“That will change, my friend, you can count on it!” Korir said, though his expression turned to awe as the icy winds had calmed and way across the bridge was clear and safe.

“I look forward to it,” Morokei said, summoning an amicable smile. “I will visit your great hall as soon as I am able, my jarl.”

“I’ll hold you to that! Take care of Thane Ofan, she likes to get into trouble!”

“Talos guide y- wait what?” Ofan sputtered, as the soldiers chuckled. This sparked a genuine grin on the ancient Nord’s pale face. “So I have learned.”

The Jarl and his contingent of guards departed, and Morokei rolled his shoulders. “Now that such tedious business has concluded, I can _finally_ examine the Eye of Magnus. I wonder if it has changed at all?”

The young maiden felt another wave of dizziness wash over her, yet she could not help but giggle. “Enjoy yourself, Morokei. I for one would like a nice, hot bath and two…no _three_ , sweetrolls.”

“Three?” He inquired, amused, glancing at her tiny frame. 

“I deserve them all,” she answered with playful adamance, turning and walking toward the Hall of Attainment where her chambers were. His rich chuckle behind her was a surprisingly comforting sound. She was hit by another rush of sickness, exhaustion. Ofan figured that she just needed rest and perhaps treatment for her smaller wounds that remained. It had been quite a day…the world started to tilt and the last thing she heard was Brelyna and Tolfdir shouting before everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viinturuth's appearance and abilities in-game vary based on player level, so I decided to make him a blood dragon. 
> 
> Approximate Dovahzul translations:
> 
> Nikriin joor = Cowardly mortals
> 
> Paak = Shame
> 
> Nonvul = Noble
> 
> I shall send you loyal servants without delay = a very rough translation of Mu fent uth mid aar vosaraan


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to meet another sonaak!

Viintaas inhaled sharply at the sheer size of the tomb’s massive final chamber. The floor was covered with dubious looking stone tiles and a lone ebony coffin sat before the elevated word wall on the far side. Despite himself, he felt his hopes rising. Surely the dragon priest known as the Guardian would listen to his plea. _He had to_. Viintaas was uncertain who else he would turn to otherwise. As he waited for Tharstan to catch up, his mind wandered over the unusual puzzles throughout the elaborate tomb. He had never seen magical bridges that were still so strong and responsive after millennia. In fact, he had never seen such ethereal paths before at all! The Word Walls had called unto his curious dragon’s soul with an allure more intense than any others he had yet encountered. Even so, it was the three plaques that had intrigued him most.

_A sacrifice will bring you closer to that which you seek._

A clue on how to access the deeper parts of the ornate memorial, but perhaps also a hint at the Guardian’s deeds?

_Continue along the path, don't tread where you've been._

A clear warning regarding the nature of the magical bridges, but was it also an indication of the priest’s philosophy?

_All Men must die, often by their own means._

That…disturbed the young Nord, to say the least. Did the Guardian commit suicide? Is that what the first Wall had meant by an honorable death? Was the revered priest sacrificed to the dragons he worshipped as some sort of twisted reward? Or was he simply reading too much into the poetic prose of the ancients?

Viintaas rubbed his head in an effort to ward off a dull ache. Tharstan paused beside the intrepid explorer he had hired to navigate the ruins, frowning in concern. The lad’s skin was even paler than usual, a vibrant contrast to his short yet unruly coal-black tresses.

“Are you alright son?” The elderly scholar asked. He managed to keep from flinching when his companion faced him fully with a bright smile. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed by all this.”

“It’s an amazing discovery,” Tharstan agreed, tearing his gaze away from Viintaas’s face. Such brutal scarring…they were not visible from the young man’s left, hence why they startled him so. The academic prayed he had not revealed any sort of impolite reaction. Those hopes were dashed when Viintaas’s warm, clear voice echoed through the catacombs.

“You wish to know how a Nord received such burns, eh? Don’t worry, they’re not from tomb exploration.” He said with a smirk, though his gaze remained on the solitary sarcophagus. Viintaas ran a hand across the imperfections that began below his right ear and curved in a savage crescent down his cheek, chin, neck and likely beyond. “The Falmer are merciless. Anyway, let’s see if the Guardian will permit us to read the final Wall, shall we?”

“Be careful,” Tharstan advised as the young man adeptly navigated the pressure plates. “Reports from the mainland are still inconclusive regarding the state of the dragon priests.”

Viintaas once again felt the pull of the Word Wall and desperately wished he could read Dovahzul without Tharstan’s assistance. He skirted a respectful distance around the coffin, coming face to face with the wondrous tongue engraved in the archaic stone. Momentarily forgetting his mission, he reached out to touch the word that resonated with him most: _Shaan_. Viintaas’s dragon soul nearly left his mortal body when the lich suddenly burst from the sarcophagus, tossing aside the stone slab like it was made of cotton. The young Nord inhaled sharply, gathered his thoughts, and knelt swiftly.

“Hail, mighty Guardian,” he greeted sincerely, keeping his tone steady.

The dragon priest’s glowing orbs bore into him with what Viintaas guessed was suspicion. Not a sound was made in the gargantuan crypt save for the lich’s raspy breathing, the fluttering of his tattered red robes…and the scratching of Tharstan writing furiously in his journal. Someone had to record these unprecedented events!

The young Nord swallowed. He felt the draconic power that radiated off the priest keenly. It was familiar, almost comforting, despite the circumstances. All of his planned speeches abandoned his mind as Viintaas was utterly baffled by the strange magnetism that stirred within his soul. It was not the Word Walls that called out to him this time, but the dragon priest himself!

“Dovahkiin…” The ancient being declared, his hoarse voice reverberating throughout the crypt.

Viintaas’s golden yellow eyes lit up. “Yes, I’m Dovahkiin!” His expression turned to one of horror and he quickly added. “But I’m not like the idiotic blades and guards want me to be! I don’t traipse around slaughtering and harassing random dov. I hate fighting them, actually…”

The lich hovered ominously, his gaze impassive.

“Not-not that I don’t enjoy a good battle!” Viintaas stammered. “Proud Nord warrior spirit and traditions and all!”

The dragonborn could have sworn the lich raised a non-existent eyebrow at him. Viintaas offered a sheepish grin. “C-can we start introductions again?”

The priest remained silent, much to Tharstan’s amazement. Taking courage from the entity’s now thoughtful gaze, the young Nord continued. “My name is Viintaas, I only recently learned that I am Dovahkiin, and I uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, honey colored eyes flickering in thought. “It’s difficult to explain, but I don’t think I’m from this era. Anyway, I’m not here to rob your tomb, or foolishly challenge you, sonaak thur. I am here to seek your advice.”

Viintaas met the undead gaze of the Guardian. “Miraak has returned. He is not yet on Solstheim itself, but he plagues the island from Apocrypha by corrupting the All-Maker stones.”

The dragon priest did not show much emotion, but Viintaas could keenly feel his indignation and sorrow, yet not surprise. He had no idea why he discerned the lich’s feelings so clearly, but now was _not_ the time to ask.

“I encountered Miraak in Mora’s realm after an incident with one of those accursed Black Books,” He confessed. “He declared his purpose to return to Tamriel and I-I was unable to so much as shout at him…” Viintaas hated showing weakness, but he did not try to hide his genuine fear from the Guardian.

“His aura was so malevolent, so wrathful, yet so indomitable…I am no match for Miraak. The Skaal told of a warrior in their legends that vanquished him, and with the help of allies I found a few texts that spoke of you as well. With news of other sonaakke awakening I thought, I hoped-” He stood slowly, his desperate expression and voice sincere. “I really need your help. We all do.”

The lich hovered closer to the Word Wall, taking a few moments to process such a plea. He faced the young dragonborn. His voice was raspy, yet somehow kind.

“In the name of thuri Alduin, I will aid you however I can. My vow, unlike my body, has not withered with the passing of time. I will not abandon my people in their time of need.” His undead orbs almost had a glimmer of life. “Nor a fellow Dovahkiin.”

Viintaas’s jaw dropped, his eyes shining with joy! “ _That’s_ why I can feel your aura! We’re the same! That’s fantastic!” He exclaimed, forgetting all manners in his excitement! “It’s horrible being dragonborn alone!”

The ancient priest’s face seemed to soften as much as it was able. “We were never meant to endure such a burden without the dovahhe to guide us. Or trusted zeymahhe to provide more… _human_ wisdom and support.”

He would have smiled at Viintaas if he could. The lad could be no older than twenty. “My purpose is my name. I am Vahlok, often known as the Jailer.” He suddenly felt claustrophobic, despite the vast chamber. “Let us speak more in the open air; I miss the sky.”

The young Nord beamed. “O-of course!”

He enthusiastically headed for the entranceway…and right onto the pressure plates! Fire shot up from the deadly tiles and Viintaas flailed about, desperately trying to stifle the flames yet blundering onto more of the numerous traps as he did so! A telekinetic push sent the dragonborn tumbling into the shallow pool of water at the very center of the cavern. He spluttered, examining his arms and legs. Fortunately, only the brown mage robes had been singed. Viintaas shoved his black bangs out of his eyes, seeing Vahlok and Tharstan both peering at him with the same concerned fatherly demeanor from opposite sides of the pool.

“Thanks,” he said, coughing.

The Guardian simply laughed. Despite his rattling breaths, it sounded like it would have been a very nice laugh once, full of benevolence and happiness.

 _By the gods,_ Vahlok thought. _This boy is like Zahkriisos on moon sugar._

“Viintaas,” he said finally. “Would you happen to know the thu’um for a whirlwind-like sprint?”


	8. Chapter 8

Tharstan could hardly believe his eyes as Vahlok the Jailer emerged from his hidden tomb. He was truly ancient history given life! Vahlok's expression of wonder and joy at the outside world quickly turned into one of dismay. The once lush forests were dying!

“What has befallen my island?” He whispered, hoarse voice filled with sorrow. Viintaas's gaze fell and Tharstan grew solemn. “The Red Mountain erupted approximately two centuries ago and has been spewing ash ever since. But the Skaal people endure despite hardship.”

Vahlok's undead orbs flickered in deep thought. Viintaas keenly discerned his fellow Dovahkiin's conflicting emotions. The Guardian was proud of the indomitable spirit of his people, yet remorseful that he had been unable to protect them.

The young Nord's voice was sincere, his expression earnest. “You had been dead for millennia by that time, Vahlok. There was absolutely nothing you could have done.”

The ancient lich was taken aback at being read so clearly. Growing up in a society that praised power above all else, he was accustomed to being unreadable, with or without his mask. His glowing eyes flickered downwards, then rested back on his counterpart.

Viintaas offered an encouraging grin. "I bet they'll be overjoyed that you're back to kick Miraak's titanic ass!"

Vahlok's ragged exhale sounded very much like a chuckle. The boy's enthusiasm was familiar and comforting. “They will likely need a warning regarding my current appearance.”

The younger Dragonborn blinked, reddening a bit. “Oh. Good point.”

He gave Tharstan an inquiring look. The scholar nodded, bowing low before the Guardian. “I shall go on ahead and inform the Skaal. Please, take all the time that you need! I cannot imagine how strange it must be to live again after so many centuries.”

The ancient priest studied the man for a moment before inclining his head in acknowledgement. The elderly Nord shouldered his satchel and began the relatively short trek back to the village, murmuring excitedly about archaic knowledge!

Vahlok's keen gaze turned back to the boy. “I sense you are burning with questions, Dovahkiin.”

Viintaas laughed merrily! “So many questions! I'm uncertain where to begin! In all seriousness though, such matters can wait.” His amber gaze lowered briefly, and his voice softened. “The first time I regained some of my muddled memories was while exploring the ruins of Saarthal and it was... _bad_.”

_Understatement of the year,_ he thought, pausing briefly before continuing. “Anyway, like Tharstan said, rest a few moments. If you desire to, that is!”

A thunderous roar cut off the Guardian's response. The sky darkened and the World-Eater himself descended, his black wings whipping up a gale as he landed before them with a tremendous thud! The ground cracked beneath his talons as he proudly arched his neck, crimson gaze piercing the two Dragonborn before him. Vahlok knelt swiftly, though not without trouble, inwardly flinching as bone ground on bone and undead flesh tore. Viintaas remained standing, his posture rigid. He had no idea what to expect from Tamriel's angriest dragon!

Alduin bared his fangs, new wrath welling up within him. Vahlok was among the most loyal and powerful of his sonaakke. As selfless and bold as his father Konahrik. He was the sole connection the lord of all dragons had left to his beloved first priest. And now Akatosh's new favorite dared to disturb his tomb? His baleful stare focused fully on Viintaas.

“Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi. You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah.”

“Now wait just a moment!” Viintaas exclaimed, forgetting all caution at such an accusation. “I never wanted to _be_ Dragonborn! I’m not even sure why I’m supposed to battle you and your people in the first place! Clearly, you are not trying to devour the world, but getting ready to rule it. With all the corruption and prejudice among mer and men, I fail to see how the dov could do any worse!” 

Alduin snorted, his ruby orbs glittering. He remembered that Vahlok had also dreaded his own dragon soul when his abilities were made manifest all those centuries ago. Judging by the almost pleading way in which the lich stared at him, Konahrik's kul was reliving the same memories. The World-Eater frowned.

"Nid," he rumbled, swishing his great tail.

Viintaas was utterly confused until he realized that the ebony dov was looking at the Guardian.

"He speaks the truth, sahrot thur," Vahlok insisted, slowly rising to his feet. "Viintaas sought my council regarding traitorous Miraak. He is no enemy to our people. Please, lotgein, allow me to guide him in the way of the true Dragonborn, as you taught me."

The young Nord's eyes widened. The Guardian himself was offering to be his teacher?

Alduin scoffed, sizing up the boy. He abruptly straightened. Yet another time lost child? Was his father playing some sort of demented game? "...you do not belong in this age, Dovahkiin."

Viintaas sighed, rubbing the back of his neck a bit sheepishly. "Yeah, I found that out the hard way." His eyes lit up, but his demeanor was respectful now. "Am I from an ancient Nordic clan? Is that why my name is Dovahzul?"

Kel-touched aura or no, Alduin had no time to hatchlingsit, but of course Vahlok had already grown attached and was invested in discerning his counterpart's origins.

“Viintaas. Shining.” The lich murmured, stroking his chin. He inhaled sharply as a poignant memory flashed before his eyes. The boy's personality was akin to Zahkriisos, but his appearance was strikingly close to-

“Thuri,” Vahlok began, earnestly.

“I know, kiir,” Alduin interjected, though his voice was less irritated and more thoughtful now.

“Is it possible?”

“Perhaps...”

“I must find him immediately!”

“Drem, nonvulbron,” Alduin commanded, his fathoms deep baritone stern in an almost fatherly manner. “Sizaan kiir hofnik fen saraan. Hin laas fent kos vokrii.”

Viintaas could only understand the words peace, Nord, wait and restore. He decided against annoying the massive dragon further with even more inquiries and remained silent. He glanced at Vahlok and the Guardian too, looked as confused as a lich possibly could. A whirling portal opened beside the Firstborn of Akatosh, revealing a tall man in indigo dragon priest robes.

“Nahkriin??” Vahlok exclaimed, hovering closer to the newcomer. “It does my heart good to see you again, zeymah! But how is this,” he gestured to the living man’s hale form, “possible?”

Nahkriin smiled warmly. It was wonderful to find another of his zeymahhe safe and sound. He had feared for the Guardian’s wellbeing due to his tomb being in such proximity to the ruins of Miraak’s accursed temple. Nahkriin briefly glanced at the young Nord, but he had stopped questioning Vahlok’s choice of friends, followers, and pets long ago. “Thuru Alduin calls us unto greater service, indomitable Jailer.”

Alduin advanced toward them, his every movement causing the ground to tremble beneath their feet. “Prepare yourself, Dovahkiini.”

The ancient priest remained still, regarding his master. Alduin’s shout was like a clap of thunder!

“ **Vahlok! Slen Tiid Vo**!”

The elder Dragonborn collapsed to his knees as his body heeded the World-Eater’s command! Viintaas looked on in horror while Nahkriin winced in empathy. The blue priest moved to aid his brother when Vahlok’s trembling frame was abruptly enveloped in fiery light!

“Zeymah!” Nahkriin cried in dismay! This was not how the resurrection was supposed to be!

“Drem,” Alduin ordered, staring intently as Vahlok’s form was reborn with the swiftness of the Dov themselves.

The brilliant light dissipated, revealing a very much alive Nord amidst the decrepit dragon priest robes. His rich skin tone reminded Viintaas of honeyed bronze and his short ebony curls were touched by frost, though his face seemed youthful. A jagged scar that appeared to have been inflicted by savage talons crossed his left eye and his flickering orbs were a startling, vibrant sapphire hue.

Vahlok carefully rose to his feet, glancing at his hands in wonder and alarm. Nahkriin approached with a dark cloak, draping it around his overwhelmed comrade’s shoulders.

“Breathe, zeymah,” He instructed calmly, though inwardly he was still trying to regain his own composure! Nahkriin surmised that the Jailer’s dragon soul must have hastened his rebirth.

Vahlok searched his brother, dumbfounded. Nahkriin offered a small smile. “Living again will require some adjustment, yes.”

Viintaas looked back and forth between the dragon priests, their overlord, then back again.

“Holy Akatosh…” he murmured, summing up Vahlok’s own astonishment quite well indeed!

~ ~ ~

Ofan awoke to find herself in a large, luxurious bed. She blinked slowly, trying to figure out where she was. This was not her room in the dormitory. The petite woman vaguely remembered regaining consciousness briefly to find herself surrounded by her peers and Lord Morokei before blacking out again. She also awoke to argue with Colette and Faralda about helping her bathe, then once again to lament to a seated Tolfdir about how weak she felt before fading back into slumber. Ofan slowly sat upright, grateful that the dull throbbing in the back of her head was gone.

“Oh thank Azura you’re awake!” Brelyna exclaimed, rising from a nearby chair where she was reading. “The longer you were asleep the more in danger everyone was due to the suspicion of the dragon priest! It took a great deal of persuasion on Professor Colette’s part to convince him that you were simply exhausted from your ordeals and not stealthily attacked out of rebellion to Alduin’s will.”

Ofan blinked again, still trying to shake the weariness from her mind. “Oh dear…I am glad no one was hurt.” She looked around, crinkling her nose. “Am-am I in the Archmage’s chambers?”

“Lord Morokei didn’t trust us enough to watch over you in the regular living quarters,” the dark elf maiden explained. She grinned wryly. “You should be flattered.”

Ofan laughed a little, pushing her unruly ringlets out of her face as Brelyna headed toward the exit. “You should get dressed. There’s another priest here now and I think Lord Morokei will want you to meet him.” She shrugged. “They speak in the dragon tongue almost exclusively and it's difficult to know exactly what their intentions are.”

“I think the dragon priests prefer it that way,” Ofan replied with a smile, throwing back the plush covers and dangling her feet over the side of the bed. “It makes them even more mysterious than they already are.”

Brelyna giggled, then headed out the door, leaving the young Nord alone with her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximate Dovahzul Translations:
> 
> Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi. = So, you are Dragonborn? I see none of the dragonkind in you.
> 
> Kiir = Child
> 
> Drem, nonvulbron = Peace, noble Nord
> 
> Sizaan kiir hofnik fen saraan. Hin laas fent kos vokrii = The lost child’s birthplace/home/heritage will wait. Your life shall be restored. 
> 
> Dovahkiini = My Dovahkiin


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragon priest shenanigans.

Morokei's rich voice echoed throughout the Hall of Elements as Ofan entered the vast rotunda.

“...is immaterial. If Thuri Alduin would only liberate his life force with his undeniable commands, the empowered Staff will be more than capable of bringing Durnehviir back from the Soul Cairn permanently,” the tall priest explained, facing the whirling sphere. A slightly shorter man stood beside him, also studying the Eye of Magnus. Both were clad in the traditional robes and golden armor of Dragon Cult royalty, the only differences being that Morokei's fabrics were of a dark purple and his counterpart's were the hue of a hearty pine.

“Lord Morokei?” Ofan ventured, respectfully.

Both priests turned around and the young mage noticed that while Morokei was content without his mask, his companion's face remained hidden.

“Malvahdin,” Morokei's rich voice was a pleasant purr. “I am pleased to see you are well.”

“See zeymah? You had these strange mages skulking about in terror for naught,” the second man jested, his expressionless mask belying a youthful voice.

Morokei scoffed. “They needed to be rattled. The mediocre standards exhibited by this 'prestigious' institution would have been swiftly rebuked in our era.”

“By fire you mean?” His fellow inquired innocently, knowing full well the answer.

“How else is corruption supposed to be purged?” The taller priest replied. “Ice?”

From the teasing grin that traced its way across Morokei's fair face, Ofan assumed that his ally must specialize in frost magic.

The other priest snorted. “Ha! The next time you go gallivanting aimlessly in a blizzard and even our Nordic blood cannot keep you from frostbite, you shall regret such haughty words, zeymah!”

Relaxed by their playful banter with one another, Ofan voiced her own inquiry. “The next time? Has Lord Morokei been lost in the snow before?”

The masked man's voice was filled with mischief. “More than you might think!”

“Ofan, please, simply Morokei will do,” the violet eyed Nord insisted, seeking to change the subject. “It is only Krosis here now.”

“It is good to know how much you truly respect me, zeymah,” the newcomer joked, turning to face the petite maiden. He removed his mask, inclining his head courteously. “It is a pleasure to meet one of the Sossedov.”

She bowed her head properly in turn, smiling sweetly. “The honor is mine...just Krosis?”

The green robed priest laughed. “Yes, 'tis I, Simply Krosis!”

Morokei chuckled good naturedly and Ofan studied Krosis's face. His pale skin was dotted with freckles and fiery red tresses peaked from beneath his hood. Despite his merry demeanor however, his emerald eyes held great sorrow, as though he had endured great tribulation in the past. The young mage was curious but would never be so rude as to inquire about something so personal of a stranger! Although she did have another question.

“Did Lord Viinturuth send you to study the Eye of Magnus as well?”

Krosis grinned. “Rather to make certain that zeymahi does not lose himself in his own investigations.”

Ofan could not help but giggle at Morokei's rather dramatic grumbles of protest.

“All jests aside, Thuru Viinturuth desired to put my observation skills to good use.”

“He means _assassination_ skills,” the other priest explained, brushing his azure touched locks away from his face.

“Only when absolutely necessary, brother,” Krosis replied, giving a genuinely kind smile to Ofan. “My presence will also allow Morokei proper time to instruct you in Dovahzul, the Dragon Tongue.”

Her eyes lit up and she glanced over at the taller priest. “That sounds lovely, I am very eager to learn!” She wanted very much to be a proper, Dovahzul fluent Sossedov!

Morokei inclined his head. “Pruzah. We shall convene in the courtyard in an hour next to that ridiculous statue.”

Ofan's voice lowered conspiratorially. “Are you going to shout it apart?"

Morokei smirked faintly, amethyst orbs gleaming.

“She knows you well already, zeymah!” Krosis said with a laugh.

The pale haired woman grinned. “I will confess to having pestered him with many questions!”

“It was a fair trade of information,” the ebony maned priest replied. “Go now, partake of nourishment. You have been asleep for nearly two days.”

Ofan wondered if the former lich had eaten anything, but she simply smiled and bowed her head. “Very well. It was nice to meet you, Simply Krosis.”

The priest with pine green eyes chuckled. “And you as well, Ofan Sossedov. We shall speak soon I am certain.” 

Krosis’s keen gaze turned to Morokei as his counterpart thoughtfully watched the petite mage exit the Hall of Elements. “Malvahdin, zeymah, really? Little Maiden? Do you still desire to convince me that our fellow joorre are worthless even while using affectionate nicknames such as that?”

“ _We_ are not quite mortal,” the taller priest retorted, without hesitation. “And Ofan is of the dragon blood. She belongs with our people, _her_ people.”

Krosis tapped his clean-shaven chin. “Mhm…and quite a pleasant sight to awaken to after a few thousand years, yes?”

Morokei’s glittering violet orbs narrowed. “Now I recall why I disliked letting you into my library. Remain focused on the task at hand, please.”

The redhead’s infuriating grin was the sole response he gave. Morokei grumbled about young ones and their wasteful mischief, the irony of which only served to amuse Krosis further! Despite his brother’s impertinent insinuations, Durnehviir’s priest confessed to himself that it was rather comforting to have his fellow priest back. He prayed to Akatosh that the others were safe and would be reborn soon.

~ ~ ~

Alduin had settled down behind Vahlok, looking imperious even while resting. He kept a close eye on the humans, occasionally scenting the cool evening air. The elder Dragonborn could feel the World-Eater’s hot breath on his right side and was struck by the sudden temptation to seek shelter under his mighty ebony wing. The thoughtful Dovahkiin had often done so as a child, especially when overwhelmed by the awareness that having a dragon’s soul granted to mortal senses. The Firstborn of Akatosh had been surprisingly patient with him and the other young acolytes who had been given the chance of becoming high priests someday. Vahlok would never dare to approach his overlord in such a needy manner now, but the massive black dragon’s aura was soothing. Even with the increasingly loud conversation his zeymah and his fellow Dovahkiin were having across from them.

“Wait, wait, wait…so you _didn’t_ constantly sacrifice your followers?” Viintaas inquired, flabbergasted.

“Of course not!” Nahkriin exclaimed, deeply offended. “Where in all of Keizal would you receive such an odious impression of our culture?”

Viintaas ran a hand through his wild locks. “Well, records have not remembered the Dragon Cult kindly, though perhaps that is due in part to history having been told by the -” He thought better of saying ‘winners’ while Alduin remained close by. “- By the majority, and most joorre didn’t enjoy being ruled over by dragons very much. Mistranslation over the ages has no doubt been an issue as well. And to be frank, Lord Nahkriin, that crazed poisoner in Forelhost did _not_ leave a favorable impression.”

Vahlok tilted his head. “Vosis? He was a fine blacksmith, but no alchemist.”

Nahkriin’s mouth set in a hard line. “After your death, Thuru Alduin’s banishment, and the progression of the war, all bonds of brotherhood were forsaken by even those in our elite circle. Rahgot used his authority as high priest to execute Vosis and take over his city for himself.”

Viintaas sensed sudden wrath kindle in the aura of his counterpart. “ _Rahgot_. Of course.” Vahlok’s azure gaze focused on the young Nord. “What did that pahlok mey do now?”

“It was pretty horrific,” Viintaas began, growing solemn. “Judging by the archaic letters I discovered and-and the positions of the bodies, Rahgot ordered his followers to poison themselves in order to discourage King Harald’s men from reaching his sanctum…” his voice trailed off.

Nahkriin grew very still. “ _All of them_? There were a number of children in Rahgot’s cult, were there not?”

“Do you truly believe that would have stopped him from doing anything that would aid in self-preservation?” Vahlok growled, sapphire orbs blazing.

“It looked like his head alchemist tried to reason with him, at least,” the amber-eyed Nord said, quietly.

Silence fell for a few moments, then Nahkriin regarded the boy keenly. “I assume you made it to his sanctuary?”

“I did,” the younger Dovahkiin answered. “I pondered simply sneaking past his sarcophagus in order to reach the word wall on the outer battlements, but after seeing so many children’s bodies I-I welcomed a fight.”

Alduin craned his long neck around to better scrutinize Vahlok’s latest adoptee. “He should have been more than a match for you.”

Viintaas rubbed the back of his neck. “…Do you have to sound so disappointed? I was injured, yes, but your egomaniacal sonaak fled first.”

Alduin glared at the boy, but neither snapped his jaws in rebuke nor snarled. It was no small feat to best one of his high priests, Dovahkiin or no.

“His cowardice did grow after we lost you, Thuri,” Nahkriin added, trying to balance his personal disdain for Rahgot with professionalism. “None of us were the same without your guidance.”

“That shall be amended,” Alduin declared with a toss of his beautifully savage head.

“…So once he is returned to full life I am permitted to punch Rahgot in the face?” Vahlok inquired, his innocent tone causing Viintaas to grin.

The World-Eater gave his Jailer the side-eye, but it was not anger that gleamed in his crimson orbs. As Nahkriin chuckled and offered a more diplomatic solution, Viintaas observed the dragon king. His demeanor toward his sonaakke was lordly, yet also affectionate in his own brusque way. The Dragons and their Cult had slaves and committed atrocities, of that the young Dovahkiin had no doubt. Yet the societies of men and mer were guilty of such cruelties as well. Viintaas began to wonder if what the history books told of Alduin was even more inaccurate than he had previously suspected.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rare glimpse at Vahlok and Miraak's past.

_The moon was at its zenith over mighty Bromjunaar as the Nord in gilded armor stepped out onto the massive balcony overlooking the westernmost training arena. He paused to tie back his unruly mahogany tresses just in case he would be called upon to demonstrate any shouts. A few stray locks rebelled and fell loosely around his angular face, but the tall mage paid little heed and proceeded on his way. Despite his official status as an acolyte priest only, the other pupils and their teachers still treated him with deference as he confidently wove his way through the crowd. He smirked slightly to himself. It was good to be Dragonborn._

_His smile faded however when he discerned a sorrow radiating from somewhere nearby. His magical abilities did not lie in restoration or empathy, so this puzzled him until he noticed a familiar lanky teenager standing alone by the railing._

_“Vahlok,” the Dovahkiin called, brow furrowed in concern. “Hi krosis, zeymah. What troubles you so?”_

_The boy flinched, whirling around to stare at him with wide sapphire eyes. “Miraak!” He straightened, his startled demeanor swiftly turning defiant as his ally approached. “Ni! Zu’u mul! Bo!”_

_Miraak’s frown deepened. It was unlike Konahrik’s indomitable child to be startled by anything, even wrathful dovahhe. It was also strange for him to be so defensive and rude._

_“Vahlok?” He asked again, as he gently yet firmly took the younger Nord by the shoulder and guided him even further away from any listening ears. “What’s the matter?”_

_The lad trembled, then finally sighed in defeat. “I think there’s something wrong with me, zeymah. I’m not like the other students…”_

_Miraak exhaled with a chuckle. “Is that all? You and the other acolytes in training were chosen **specifically for** the unique abilities you can each offer in service to the dov. You know this.”_

_“Not like that!” The younger dragon cultist protested, before lowering his voice once more. “Haldriin keeps insisting that I’m not a proper Nord. I have no desire to fight in battles like Korthor or Ronaan. I mean, I’m always willing to defend my friends, but I see little point in constantly attacking those who not are not our enemies. Even in the conversations and interests the other apprentices have I-I have trouble finding common ground. And it’s not for lack of trying!”_

_“Paaz. A fair viewpoint. Nothing wrong with you there. And most of our peers are often dull and juvenile.” Miraak grinned at his little brother but Vahlok did not return his smile. “In all honestly, zeymah, these seem like petty differences and not actual problems.”_

_The Dovahkiin’s wry demeanor grew solemn when he felt the fresh pain that radiated from the younger boy’s aura. He recalled how isolated from his own peers he had felt at Vahlok’s age. Loneliness was a despicable emotion._

_“Forgive me, zeymah,” Miraak said, sincerely._

_The blue-eyed child regarded him apprehensively. “…I know these are small matters, Miraak, but they sure seem to pile up into something large and impossible to figure out.” He turned his back to the older mage and sighed dejectedly. “I can’t even talk to girls…”_

_Miraak hid a smile. “I did not know you desired to talk to girls.”_

_“I don’t!” Vahlok exclaimed, whirling back around. “But Master Kodaavah said I was an aberration for having no interest at my age!”_

_Miraak paused, a dangerous glint coming into his eyes. “One of your teachers said such foolishness? Did you tell Konahrik?”_

_The boy shook his head, ebony curls bouncing. “No, he’s been really busy dealing with the splinter sect.”_

_“I’ll handle ‘Master’ Kodaavah,” the Dragonborn insisted, placing a reassuring hand on the lad’s shoulder. “You are **not** an aberration, zeymah.” His voice softened a bit. “Do you fancy boys instead?”_

_Vahlok became contemplative, sapphire orbs glittering. “…No. Honestly zeymah I don’t feel attracted to anyone.” He exhaled heavily. “See, this is what I mean! Something is wrong with me!”_

_Miraak had a suspicion that Kodaavah had been filling his pupils’ minds with more than the laws of the dovahhe. He gazed the ramparts that surrounded the city and saw a band of smaller dragons engaged in a rousing mock hunt of one another! His eyes lit up._

_“Come here,” He commanded, gesturing toward the mirthful group. “Look at the dovahhe. You are fourteen, yes?” At the boy’s nod he continued. “Dragons that size would be about your age if they grew the way men do. Do they seem interested in searching for possible mates?”_

_Vahlok crinkled his nose. “They’re adolescents. Thur Paarthurnax says that dov do not seek mates until they reach full growth.”_

_Miraak smiled. “Pruzah, exactly!” He knelt to meet his brother’s gaze better. “There is nothing wrong with you, my dear, overthinking malzeymah. You are young, you need not fret about relationships or preferences at your age. Nor about fitting in with a group of prattling apprentices that are beneath you.”_

_Vahlok regarded him thoughtfully for a few quiet moments, then rushed to embrace his brother! “Thank you, Miraak…”_

_The Dovahkiin chuckled and ruffled the lad’s hair. A dreadful, wrathful roar silenced all conversation among men and dragons alike! Alduin soared over the training arena, a battered and rather unimpressive by comparison blood dragon writhing in his great jaws! The pale glint of golden armor in the moonlight caught the brothers' attention from across the parapets as Konahrik moved to address the denizens of Bromjunaar. Alduin’s chosen priest projected his rich voice easily across the ornate city of stone._

_“Behold the fate of the pahlok, tahrodiis mey who dared to oppose our sovereign lord and master Alduin!”_

_With a swift twist and sickening crunch, the World-Eater snapped the offender's neck and cast his enemy onto the cold earth far below! The dragons roared and sang their praises of the Firstborn of Akatosh. The priests too, joined in the adulation. The ordinary citizens however remained respectfully, or fearfully, silent. Miraak's eyes gleamed when he realized that none of the dovahhe were closer to the broken body than he, which meant the rebel's soul would empower **him** with its knowledge. Good._

_He grinned at Vahlok, having been desensitized to even the most brutal of dragon behaviors long ago. "Bormahiil will no longer have to worry about dissidents. Let’s speak with him now regarding Kodaavah."_

_The boy nodded, having deeply missed his father. He raced ahead of Miraak, who chuckled, striding a bit faster in order to chide anyone who did not make way for the son of the Warlord!_

_The traitorous dovah's corpse began to burn as his spirit was pulled to the nearest fellow dragon soul. The Dovahkiin paused to relish in the power he would soon feel. Only it was not unto him that the primal energy surged toward. Vahlok stumbled when the fiery blue and orange light enveloped him, his sapphire eyes widening in alarm. The dov and their cultists let out cries of shock and wonder as the adolescent mortal absorbed the life force of the fallen blood dragon!_

_The boy began to breathe rapidly, his eyes darting from side to side as if reading something unseen. He swayed unsteadily, staring at his hands as though he no longer recognized himself. Miraak snapped out of his stunned daze and clamped his mouth shut, finally aware that it had been hanging open! He knew the overwhelming sensation of an abrupt comprehension of a dragon’s mind well. What the Dovahkiin could not comprehend was how and why his adopted sibling was also a Dragonborn! A myriad of emotions radiated in his chest. **He should have known.** He had always been able to discern Vahlok’s emotions more keenly than anyone else’s, and even Ahzidal’s masterful knowledge of the arcane could not explain why. He had always been able to sense his little brother’s presence, reminiscent of Alduin’s connection with his mighty race through their souls. Until this moment, Miraak had been regarded as the sole Dragonborn in all of Mundus. It was an honor he had readily accepted. The gifted mage had never seen such power as something to be feared, but there were moments he had felt like a misfit among both the dovahhe and his fellow joorre. Miraak inhaled sharply. **He was no longer alone.** _

_“Yet another kinsman wrapped in mortal flesh?!” A frost dragon snorted, his incredulous tone capturing Miraak’s attention. “Why would Akatosh not send forth a warning?”_

_“He is a god, he answers to no one, especially not unto you!” A slender striped dov snapped, lashing out with her tail. “We should be pleased at this discovery.”_

_“A discovery of trouble!” A muscular brown beast scoffed. “One Dovahkiin has unleashed enough chaos upon the world as it is.”_

_“NAHLOT!” Alduin’s thunderous voice once again trounced any arguments or exclamations._

_“How dare you disparage any child of our father’s,” Paarthurnax rumbled, his cultured voice full of reproof. He alighted on the alure next to Alduin, who balefully glared at the ignorant dovahhe. “You should be ashamed of such nivahriin tinvaak.”_

_Akatosh’s Firstborn vehemently showcased his agreement with a chilling growl, then he lowered his head to better examine a stunned Konahrik. Relieved by the support of the two eldest dragons, Miraak turned back to Vahlok, whose eyes were filled with unshed tears._

_“Drem zeymahi,” Miraak soothed. “All is well.”_

_Vahlok's aura only grew more turbulent. Instead of rejoicing in his newfound divine might, the younger Dragonborn was **devastated**. Miraak inwardly flinched. Of course such a monumental change would occur just as his malzeymah was starting to feel comfortable with himself. Miraak was beginning to suspect that Akatosh had a sadistic sense of humor. _

_“It's okay,” the First Dovahkiin began again, but the boy backed away, shaking his head._

_He desperately tried to remain brave before that the eyes of so many dovahhe, especially his father's patron, but he was utterly overwhelmed! His first instinct was to flee, and the newfound ability acquired from the fallen dragon’s soul gave him a way to do so. Vahlok ran to the edge of the balcony, gripped the railing, and cried,_ " **Feim!** "

_His physical form became ethereal and untouchable at the ancient command! Miraak realized too late what his counterpart had planned as the dismayed child leapt over the balustrade! He landed unharmed on the hard ground below, desperately searching for the nearest city gate as his body returned to a tangible state._

_“Vahlok!” Miraak cried. “Wait!”_

_The last thing the boy saw were Miraak’s wide turquoise eyes glowing in the darkness before he fled into the night._

_“Vahlok!”_

Vahlok.

“Vahlok!” Alduin’s rumbling call from his right snapped the dazed Dragonborn out of his solemn reverie.

“Forgive me, sahrot thur,” he said, embarrassed. “My mind was elsewhere.”

The dark-haired man straightened in his seat as his three allies stared at him incredulously.

“Obviously,” Nahkriin commented, his deep purple orbs flickering with in concern.

“It’s Miraak, isn’t it?” Viintaas inquired. “His creepy, probing presence still infects this island through the stones. I break his hold whenever I find one hypnotizing people, but I’ve only come across four, and the largest stone by Miraak’s temple still feels…wrong.”

“There are six in total, if the volcano destroyed them not,” the elder Dovahkiin said, his expression thoughtful.

Viintaas shifted uncomfortably as Alduin’s crimson gaze found him once more. “And how, exactly, did you learn such a rare Rotmulaag?”

The dragon king still unsettled him but the younger dragonborn was not about to let it show! “I’m a simple man. I sense a word wall, I investigate.”

The black dragon seemed to arch an eyebrow at him. “Vahlok may come to regret taking you as a pupil…”

Vahlok shrugged. “I practically raised Zahk, so…”

This diffused all tension as Nahkriin sincerely laughed and even Alduin relaxed ever so slightly. He seemed to enjoy his priests’ mirth. 

“No one is wilder than Zahkriisos!” The portal conjurer declared in amusement, rising to his feet. “I only hope he remembers me fondly.”

The World-Eater whipped his tail back and forth. “He will heed my call. Vahlok, gather your people and regain their allegiance. Nahkriin will retrieve Zahkriisos and Dukaan and together you shall confront Ahzidal.”

The azure eyed Dovahkiin did not like the certainty with which Alduin proclaimed a battle with his brother, but he simply bowed his head. “As you command, great one.”

Viintaas abruptly jumped to his feet, causing Akatosh’s Firstborn to snort at him in unnoticed reproof. “Great! Come on, Vahlok! Let’s introduce you to the Skaal!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximate Dovahzul Translations:
> 
> Hi krosis zeymah = You (are) sorrowful, brother.”  
> Ni! Zu’u mul! Bo! = (It’s) nothing! I (am) strong! Go!  
> Tahrodiis = Traitorous/Treacherous  
> Nahlot = Silence


	11. Chapter 11

Ofan rocked back and forth on her heels as she waited for Morokei beside the statue of Shalidor. She spotted Tolfdir leading his class into the courtyard from the stone bridge and hurried to meet them. The elderly Nord's eyes twinkled when he saw her. “Ah, Ofan, it is good to see you are well!”

“Thank you, professor,” she replied, looking relieved. “Brelyna said that things became rather tense...”

“Nothing we couldn't handle,” the alteration teacher assured. “You seem to have made powerful ally.”

“I don't think dragon priests have allies,” Onmund said, quietly. “Be careful, Ofan.”

The petite maiden gave him a gentle smile. “I shall be fine, thank you.” Her mirth faded as her gaze traveled to the uppermost stone gazebo. “How fares Savos?”

“Physically he's okay, but mentally he's not doing as well,” Brelyna answered sadly. “The purple priest had decided to execute him as a sacrifice to Viinturuth but the newcomer changed his mind.”

“What about the other professors? And the scary Librarian?”

“Urag gro-Shub scares you but the masked men do not?” J'zargo inquired, ears swiveling.

“They scold me less,” Ofan whispered, as if the old orc would appear and yell at her for keeping library books for too long.

“That is fair,” the khajiit conceded, remembering his own library mishaps.

“Regardless, everyone is holding together well enough, considering the circumstances,” Tolfdir said, reining in his distractable pupils. “But what are you doing out here? The sun will set soon.”

“Morokei is going to begin my instruction in Dovahzul,” Ofan answered, twisting a hapless shimmering tress around her index finger. “I am both excited and nervous. I truly wish to do well.”

“What do you think that big green dragon will say if you _do not_ learn quickly?” J'zargo pressed.

Brelyna saw greater anxiety blossom in her friend's teal eyes and elbowed the khajiit reprovingly!

Tolfdir abruptly shushed them as Ofan heard the great doors of the Hall of Elements open. The petite mage turned and smiled at the approaching dragon priest, although Morokei's gaze was focused on Tolfdir appraisingly.

“Greetings, Lord Morokei,” the alteration professor said, tranquil as the frozen plains.

“Tolfdir,” the former lich acknowledged, coolly. “I trust you were not taking your students back through Saarthal...”

"Only to learn more about our ancestors I assure you," the elderly Nord replied, while his class shifted uneasily.

Morokei was rigid, but his tone remained calm. “ _Your ancestors_ , _my people_ , Tolfdir. Their graves have been disturbed quite enough. If Zeymahi Ahzidal grants you permission to roam through the desecration of his home like tourists, I will allow it, but not beforehand.”

“Ahzidal? _The_ Ahzidal?” Onmund exclaimed, surprise overriding his fear.

Morokei's gaze remained impassive. “Yes, _the Ahzidal_. The masterful mage who stood in the ruins of that once great city after the Falmer massacred our people. The greatest enchanter in all of Keizaal who could not even give his wife a proper burial because the Falmer had hacked her body to pieces!”

He did not move, but his violet orbs burned with fury. “Saarthal's devastation may be a fascinating historical event for you and your students, Tolfdir, but for dii zeymahhe and myself it is an appalling tragedy!”

He pushed past the group without waiting for a response. “Huzrah, Ofan,” he commanded, striding onto the bridge.

She followed swiftly, grateful that the cold winds were gentle today. The young woman called out to the dragon priest once they had reached the middle of the stone span. “Morokei!”

The former lich whirled around. “Defending these pahlok joorre yet again, Ofan Sossedov?”

His ire was terrifying, but under all of his understandable rage she discerned his bitter anguish.

“No,” the petite mage answered, meeting his wrathful glare. “I-” She was at a loss for the correct words. ‘I’m sorry’ offered little comfort. “I-just-just tell me what I can do to aid you,” she said sincerely.

Morokei straightened, a bit taken aback by her words. He ran a hand through his long locks and exhaled slowly. Durnehviir’s chosen chided himself for not keeping his emotions hidden and yet he could not shake his grief for the fate of his once mighty people. Morokei had lamented their loss for decades, but now that he had grown more aware of just how decimated his society had been, old wounds had been reopened. Ofan’s heart went out to the ancient priest, who seemed to be warring within himself.

“They are not simply draugr and bodies to you,” she ventured, softly. “You knew them in life…”

“Not personally,” he replied, his velvety baritone quiet. “But many of my brothers did. I dwelt at Bromjunaar.”

“All of those skeletons in the inner chambers of Labyrinthian…” Ofan began, regarding him sadly.

“My followers; some were even my friends,” He interjected solemnly, eyes swirling in sorrow. “Talbjorn and Ingrid were expecting a daughter. Silvar had been chosen to ascend to the priesthood. In time, I believe he would have joined us in the ranks of the High Priests. Lalia’s little son had just turned three. None of that matters in war.”

He sighed once more, rubbing his eyes tiredly. A living body certainly grew weary faster than an undead one.

“Recollection accomplishes little,” Morokei declared abruptly, striving to regain his usual confident demeanor. “There is much for you to learn and demonstrating shouts here will ensure the safety of any ignorant observers. Later we shall focus on proper grammar and scribing.”

“I do not mind waiting…” Ofan said, her voice trailing off.

The former lich turned to find her regarding him still, not with pity, but compassion. Her genuine and consistent empathy was both an irritation and a solace. He did not need to be coddled and soothed like a weak-willed child. And yet…he longed for the time when he was able to unabashedly confide in more allies than his zeymahhe. A rare few among his zeymahhe. Anyone who trusted Hevnoraak or Volsung with personal matters was an utter fool!

“Nid, no. Zu’u los pruzah. I am well.” Morokei insisted, speaking with greater emphasis on the phrases in Dovahzul so she could start to take note of every nuance in the dragon tongue. “Let us begin with any questions you may have first.”

She regarded him carefully, then swiftly nodded, her curls bouncing. “Well I have been wondering why, when you shout in Dovahzul, things happen but when you speak the same words, nothing occurs.” She seemed a little embarrassed.

“Firstly, do not be ashamed about being unaware of anything you have never been taught,” Morokei answered. “Secondly, it has everything to do with utilizing the Voice, or Thu’um. The Thu’um is one’s vital breath, one’s inner spirit, the su’um, projected into a shout. Simply speaking the words of power without focusing one’s energy and without true comprehension of their full meaning will not result in flames, resurrection, and the like.”

He paused. “However, it is most unwise to get into an argument in a small council chamber filled with young dragon priests that do not possess full control of their Voices nor their tempers…”

Ofan smiled a little at that, eyes brightening. “Oh dear…”

“We fixed the tower, Hevnoraak’s blindness healed, Vokun proved his voice was just as strong as Volsung’s, Otar’s beard grew back, all was well in the end,” Morokei insisted, lilac orbs gleaming.

The petite maiden giggled a bit, then her expression became inquisitive. “What made the Dov decide to teach their priests shouts in the beginning?”

“A myriad of reasons, different for each Dovah,” Morokei stated. “Such sacred knowledge was mainly bestowed as a reward for unquestioning loyalty, or as the means for a man to be capable of enforcing the will of the Dovahhe he served. But some shouts were given as a gesture of trust between individual dragons and their chosen priests. Konahrik was the first mortal to master the Thu’um due to his latent abilities and education by Thuru Alduin himself.”

Ofan discerned the mix of familial affection and regret in the priest’s velvety baritone and gave him a questioning look. Morokei’s gaze turned to the setting sun which painted the horizon in vivid hues of orange and purple. “Konahrik was like a father to many of us, though only Vahlok was his biological child. Miraak betrayed and murdered him at the start of his insidious rebellion. We were all devasted, but none more so than his son and his patron. Thuru Alduin was never…”

He sighed and glanced back at her. “Krosis. Apologies. So los maar horvut mah kotin. Feelings of melancholy are a terrible trap to fall into. Dovahzul needs not the plethora of words that Tamrielic utilizes to convey deep thought and meaning.”

She nodded, having listened intently. The pale-haired maiden tried to think of a question that could inspire merrier memories. “Is there a particular shout that you enjoy using the most?”

Ofan was rewarded with a slight, yet sincere smile. “I am fond of the Thu’um that rends souls because its rare comprehension was a gift from my patron. I also enjoy summoning a thunderstorm, but that is not safe to do here.”

His vibrant eyes shone, and he gestured for her to remain behind him as they faced the horizon.

“ **Ven Gaar Nos**!”

A massive whirlwind swirled into existence before the dragon priest, tearing through the frigid air and off toward the sun! It traveled an impressive distance without deviating from the set path before finally dissipating. Morokei looked a little proud as he turned to face an enthused Ofan, whose turquoise eyes were sparkling.

“That was amazing!” She exclaimed. “I now fully understand why you wished to be away from both the college and the town! Did that hurt you? How long did it take to master such a skill? What do the words mean?”

Her excitement reminded Morokei of the peaceful days when he assisted Ahzidal in teaching the magically inclined acolytes. His smile grew. “Channeling the Thu’um takes its toll upon the summoner if used repetitively without rest, such as during an arduous battle. Certain Shouts cause harm when first deciphering their rotmulagge, their words of power, but only for the inexperienced. I learned these rotmulagge from Zahkriisos’s patron Numinex while visiting Solstheim. All three words only took about two weeks for me to master, but that was due to Numinex’s direct insight and my own previous mastery of other shouts. We shall discuss meanings while learning grammar.”

She tilted her head. “Numinex…his name sounds so familiar!”

He arched a sculpted eyebrow. “I do hope there is not yet another tome that claims to hold the true knowledge of my lords…”

The young mage gave him a sheepish look. “Many are enchanted by history, regardless of whether it is truth or falsehoods.”

He exhaled rather dramatically. “Yes, then. Wonderful.”

“I am uncertain,” she explained, honestly. “But I swear I have learned about Numinex before. The frightful librarian will know. He takes his work very seriously.”

Now both of Morokei’s eyebrows shot upwards. “The frightful _what_? Ofan…”

“He is intimidating!” She insisted.

“You snuck into a derelict temple complex to discover answers about your heritage,” Morokei began, her irritational fear leaving him nearly stunned with incredulity! “You have looked upon the World-Eater himself. And you are unsettled by a _bookkeeper_?”

“ _You_ have yet to fail to return a book!” Ofan cried, stamping her foot in emphasis. “I am fairly certain the last student to possess a tome overdue for ten days disappeared!”

“Your first reaction upon seeing my decayed and irate lich form was to come bounding over to my prison like a fawn!”

“You were still nicer to me than he has ever been, oh mysterious dragon priest!”

He stared at her expression of pretend petulance and started to laugh!

“Your librarian paranoia is absurd,” he said teasingly. His rich voice was warm, kind even, and she laughed as well.

“Even so, I would appreciate it greatly if you would enter the doorway first when we visit the Arcaneum,” she answered playfully, brushing her wild curls out of her face.

He smirked faintly, about to respond, when a high-pitched dragon’s scream drew his attention. Ofan too, glanced in the direction of the clarion call. “…is that a common dragon vocalization?"

A winged shape swooped into view in the last rays of the sun, making a beeline toward them. As it drew closer with alarming speed, Ofan thought it looked…wrong. It possessed neither horns nor spines, and its oval like head was grotesque compared to Alduin’s well-proportioned muzzle.

“No,” Morokei replied, conjuring lightning in both hands. “Return to the Hall and warn Krosis that one of Miraak’s allies has issued a challenge.”

His voice remained eerily calm, but his stance was tense, alert, and ready for battle. Ofan’s eyes were wide in dismay but she did not question his command. She sprinted as fast as she could up the icy stone bridge while Morokei unleashed a vehement shout!

“ **Fus Ro Dah**!”

The blue-grey beast was sent careening off course as it screeched in anger! It recovered swiftly, setting its yellow gaze, not on the priest, but the apprentice. Its lips peeled back from yellow fangs in disgust. _Sossedov_. It screamed again as Morokei sent a powerful stream of lightning tearing through its body! The serpentine dragon began to dodge with greater precision, unleashing a torrent of fire toward the young mage!

“ **Yol Tor Shul**!”

Ofan narrowly avoided utter incineration as she stumbled up the ramp of the bridge’s final span! She cried out in pain and alarm as her calves and feet were set aflame! Amidst her terror, she still reacted quickly, using the snow and her own weakened ice magic to douse the flames. The serpentine dragon sent a fireball towards Morokei, who blocked it almost contemptuously, unharmed. He inhaled sharply when he noticed a wounded Ofan struggling to rise and failing. She had no knowledge of the arcane magics revealed by the Dov, nor of the archaic spells strong enough to help humans endure them. His gaze whipped around as the serpentine creature sounded its chilling call once more, malevolent stare fixated on the young Nord. Durnehviir’s priest hurled piercing bolt after bolt at the blue grey brute, who was tanking the intense energies with dogged determination! Its refusal to be distracted from its new target at the cost of its own wellbeing disturbed Morokei. Everything about this dragon screamed of Miraak’s unnatural, corrupting influence.

“ **Fo Krah Diin**!”

An inundation of ice tore into the creature’s scales, causing it to hiss in torment. Despite the freezing effects of Morokei’s shout, the relentless Dovah shook itself and recovered, its baleful glare finding the injured mage once more. Morokei realized what the beast was going to do and began running toward Ofan, summoning vengeful electricity down upon the dragon relentlessly!

The dragon soared ahead of him, its tattered wings narrowly missing the bridge. Despite the blood now dripping from its nostrils due to the internal damage inflicted by the otherworldly lightning, the beast opened its crooked jaws wide to unleash its fury! The injured woman stared up into the hate-filled yellow orbs, her ice spikes shattering harmlessly against its molten mouth. Ofan’s native wards were not strong enough to absorb a dragon’s breath.

“ **Yol**!”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“ **Tor**!”

She was going to die.

“ **Shul**!”

Morokei pulled her into his arms as they were enveloped by devastating fire!


	12. Chapter 12

Ofan clung to the dragon priest as they were inundated by the wall of flames! She was left breathless by the immense heat yet felt no pain. She opened her eyes, realizing that Morokei had shielded her with the wards around his own body. The serpentine dragon shrieked in fury, ready to unleash another deadly inferno, when two massive ice blasts slammed into its face! A green blur leapt over them as Krosis hurtled toward the enemy dovah! The beast reared back, swiping at this new assailant with barbed wings and snapping his bloodied jaws. The red-maned priest adeptly avoided all attacks with the grace of a dancer, his movements precise yet supple.

“It gives us no joy to kill you!” Krosis declared, conjuring an ice storm. “But it is the only way to free your soul from Miraak's grasp!”

Morokei swiftly rose, spinning around and adding a lightning barrage to Krosis's blizzard!

With a final shuddering cry, the serpentine dragon slammed into the bridge then fell into the rocky gorge below. The ice mage exhaled heavily, then rushed to check on his friends. Morokei stood rigidly as heat rose in shimmering waves from the steaming gilded plates on his back. His purple robes were scorched, but the armor itself remained intact. He had long ago grown accustomed to the smell of his own burnt flesh, but it still took a bit of effort to hide the pain.

Ofan's breath came in rapid gasps and she stared up at him with round eyes. She wanted to thank Morokei for saving her life again, to inquire about his injuries, to beg his forgiveness for slipping and not reaching Krosis. But no words would form.

“Zeymah,” Krosis began, but Morokei waved him off. “Nid. Attend her.”

The emerald eyed priest noted Tolfdir and the mages' healer running over to meet them and nodded once. He knelt before Ofan, who was dutifully blinking back tears as the shock was beginning to wear off.

“Breathe, dear one,” he said, his gentle brogue soothing. “Enduring even a moment of dragon fire is agonizing beyond mortal flames. There is no shame in weeping.”

Her petite frame trembled but her distressed gaze went to Morokei, who returned a confused look.

“I'll make certain zeymahi is taken care of,” Krosis insisted with a gentle smile. “If he refuses healing, I shall tell Thuru Viinturuth.”

Despite his immense discomfort, the violet eyed priest arched an eyebrow incredulously at his counterpart. A ghost of a smile crossed Ofan's face. Krosis waved over Colette and Tolfdir, his instructions concise. “Dragon flames are potent. Treat the burns as best as you know how. I will join you shortly. There are no better tutors in the ways of mending dragon fire than the dovahhe themselves.”

Ofan maintained a brave face until she saw how the charred fabric of her trousers was nearly indistinguishable from the seared flesh of her legs. Oh gods...

A wave of intense pain and nausea washed over her. Krosis saw her sudden pallor and tried redirect her attention.

“Ofan. Ofan, look at me.”

The young mage shakily turned her stare back to those compassionate verdant eyes.

“You are a great deal stronger than you believe.”

His sincerity caught her off guard long enough for Colette to lift her up. The restoration professor was stronger than she looked! Despite her best efforts, Ofan still let out a strangled cry when moved. Morokei moved to carry her himself but Krosis subtly blocked him.

“Drem, zeymahi,” he whispered. “These mages harbor no ill intent. You can trust them.”

“The last being we trusted with our acolytes was Miraak,” Morokei hissed, watching the professors usher Ofan into the college. “And I _know_ you recall how that turned out!”

Krosis visibly winced, but said nothing, gaze lowering to the stone. Morokei instantly felt remorseful.

“Forgive me, fahdoni,” he said, sincerely. “My emotions have overcome my control as of late.”

The red-maned priest regarded him in silence for a few moments.

“So you are being human?” Krosis replied softly. He smiled a little. “It's difficult to balance being unbending with the mask while maintaining humanity without it.”

“You fared better than Hevnoraak and Haldriin,” the wounded priest replied. “Your followers and their kin did not curse your name after your death.”

“I'm fairly certain the likes of Hevnoraak and Rahgot had very little humanity to begin with,” Krosis stated, his quiet voice gaining a hard edge. “Then again, perhaps they would have turned out differently if they had been chosen by alternative patrons.” He gestured with his head toward the Hall of Elements. “Come. I wasn't jesting about reporting you to Thuru Viinturuth if you refused treatment!”

~ ~ ~

Krosis entered the Hall of Attainment and found Ofan surrounded by a crowd of concerned professors and students, with Tolfdir gently yet firmly chiding anyone who came too close. The petite mage’s eyes were red and her normally tanned skin retained a sickly pallor, but she quickly wiped away any lingering tears when she saw him.

“Relax, Ofan Sossedov. Did I not declare that tears bring no shame?” His kind, teasing tone set even nervous Onmund at ease.

“I-I have no right to cry,” she stammered. “I would have been dead if not for Lord Morokei.”

“Reacting to pain doesn’t make you ungrateful, fahdon, and zeymahi will not see it that way,” Krosis reassured her.

This seemed to calm Ofan some, though she flinched when he carefully examined her legs. “You’ve done well,” he told Colette. “There will be minimal scarring, if any at all.”

The red-haired priest offered Ofan a warm smile as he adeptly gathered his energy. “Let us see how your dragon blood responds to dragon healing.”

~ ~ ~

With sleep came dreams, and with dreams, nightmares.

_Morokei burst through the massive, gilded doors with a word of command. He did not even acknowledge the cold stares of the dovahhe in Alduin's massive audience chamber, nor their ominous rumblings. He paid little heed to his echoing footsteps throughout that vast hall. His sole focus was on their foreboding king. The young priest fell on his knees before the Firstborn of Akatosh, grateful that his moonstone mask hid his tears. “Sahrot thur-”_

_“I am aware, mid sonaak,” the World-Eater interjected, his fathoms deep voice solemn._

_“Is there naught that can be-?”_

_“He is bound to the Soul Cairn now,” Alduin declared, cutting him off once more._

_Morokei exhaled shakily, endeavoring to hide his dismay._

_“No longer shall your former patron be known as Mulnehoblaan,” Alduin decreed, wings unfurling. “From this day until his last days, he has taken upon himself the name of Durnehviir.”_

**_Durnehviir._ **

**_Cursed Never Dying._ **

Morokei awoke in a cold sweat, sitting up rapidly. The swift motion tore at the healing burns on his back and he hissed in frustration and pain. Accursed memories! May Vermina's realm be devoured! The once lich sighed wearily, rubbing his eyes. Durnehviir's absence was like an old war wound that had touched bone. The fresh anguish had faded, but there remained a dull ache that never disappeared. Even after all these centuries.

Morokei gingerly got out of the former Archmage's plush bed, reaching out with his abilities to discern where Krosis was. His brother was nearby, likely guarding the Eye of Magnus. Morokei meandered over to the writing desk, fingers tracing idly over _Ahzidal's Descent_. He wanted to finish the so-called historical account but was uncertain if his shamefully fractured emotions would endure it.

He was still staring at the old tome half an hour later when a soft knock roused him from a despondent reverie.

“Enter,” Morokei commanded, straightening. He highly doubted that the mages would trouble him if it were not important.

Ofan poked her head through the large double doors, shimmering platinum curls bouncing. “Good morning, Morokei. How are you feeling?”

He blinked. “Good...morning? Why did zeymahi allow me to slumber for so long a span?” He frowned. “And why are you wandering about? You should be reclining in a serene location!”

She entered the room with a soft smile. “It has barely been a day. Krosis said you had not slept since your resurrection, so we let you rest. Professor Colette said that I am permitted to walk around for short durations.”

Ofan observed the dragon priest keenly. He looked as dashing and confident as ever, even in black sleeping robes, but his typically graceful movements were stiff and careful.

Morokei gave a begrudging sigh of acquiescence, deciding against sending her away to relax off of her feet. For now.

“I assume my nosey brother sent you to see how I am mending?”

“Yes, but it is because he worries, which is very sweet,” the young maiden insisted. “I also wished to thank you properly.”

“Thuru Viinturuth placed you into my charge; I was not about to let my student be incinerated by a weak-willed rogue who brought shame unto all dov. I have endured far worse.”

Her gaze focused on the full vessel of ointment Krosis had created sitting untouched on the alchemy table. She approached the washbasin and started scrubbing her hands.

“Remove your shirt,” Ofan ordered, determined to make certain that the former lich’s wounds were properly tended to this morning.

Morokei’s eyesbrows rose. “Ofan Sossedov…” he chided, pretending to be aghast. “I know not how society views courting in this present age, but I prefer to be properly wooed before engaging in more _fervent_ endeavors.”

Ofan nearly dropped the towel she was holding. “O-oh! That is not what I meant!” She cried, realizing just how scandalous her words had sounded. “You cannot be-be expected to treat your own back! That is not how arms work!”

Her face was burning, and his amused smirk made her jittery nerves worse!

“I-I would never-I have yet to even kiss a man! Not that you need to know this! P-please take a seat if-if it does not hurt you,” Ofan stammered, attempting to hide behind the clean cloths she had unsteadily gathered.

Morokei chuckled, his violet eyes dancing with mirth. “As you command, my thane.”

“Oh my goodness,” she murmured, reddening even more if possible.

His rich laugh eased Ofan’s humiliation at her sheer lack of professionalism somewhat as the high priest removed the silky ebony robe, tossing it aside casually. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, then seated himself backwards on the chair. Needing aid was oft seen as weakness, but Morokei felt relaxed around his well-meaning, easily flustered charge. Her presence was a welcome distraction from the depressed void the loss of his people and patron caused.

“Your burns are still severe…” she murmured, dismayed, as she examined the red and swollen flesh.

“I remained in my armor for an unwise amount of time,” Morokei explained, nonchalantly. “They will mend.”

“You are so strong,” Ofan said sincerely, tenderly applying the liniment. “I would still be weeping.”

“I would be a shameful sonaak if I had not grown accustomed to dragon fire and destruction spells,” the ancient Nord answered.

“Your patron was…cruel?” The apprentice mage ventured as she worked.

Morokei almost seemed offended by such a question. “Nid. Ni dii grah-zeymahzin, not my closest ally. Some of our overlords were merciless, but Durnehviir was honorable and wise. Most of the dovahhe are.” His velvety voice gained a hard edge. “The same could not be said for most of our mortal teachers. Their brutal methods made my fellow acolytes and I resilient… if we survived.” She discerned the smug change in his tone. “It was incredibly satisfying to watch Konahrik smite those corrupted priests once their sadism was made known. You will never see them reborn as anything higher than draugr slaves.”

Ofan smiled a little, though he could see her not. “I hope I am able to meet this noble Konahrik someday.”

Morokei’s gaze fell and his voice was soft. “I desire that as well, Ofan Sossedov. I daresay he would have cared for you in the same manner he cared for us.”

“Will you tell more about him?”

Morokei’s eyes flickered in thought, and he smiled faintly. “I suppose there are a few tales I could share…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morokei is enjoying having someone to teach and tease again!  
> Sorry for the late update, October was insane.
> 
> Approximate Dovahzul Translations:
> 
> Mulnehoblaan= Strength Never Ending


	13. Chapter 13

Vahlok had missed the simple sensations one oft took for granted during life. The soft sound of footfalls muffled by freshly fallen snow. The invigorating touch of frosty mountain air. The soothing scents of pine trees and snowberry bushes. In spite of the damage to his homeland, the Jailer was grateful to truly be alive once more. Viintaas practically bounced alongside him as the two Dragonborn hiked up the dense forest trail toward the Skaal village. Vahlok was unable to keep from grinning as his younger counterpart's enthusiasm radiated through both of their souls! He was uncertain if even his own excitement at reuniting with his people could eclipse Viintaas's!

“Here we are!” The amber-eyed lad declared. “The village is just across that bridge.”

The Guardian spotted the distant cluster of buildings and was seized by a sudden anxiety. Surely these people did not really care or even remember who he was. The elderly man that had been with Viintaas appeared to be a scholar of some sort; Vahlok told himself not to expect such a warm reception from the rest of the villagers. Especially if tales of his cruelest brethren from the mainland were all they knew of the Dragon Cult.

Storn Crag-Strider stood silently beside chieftain Fanari as the denizens of their hamlet anxiously debated amongst themselves before the great hall.

“The black beast flew straight toward the tomb,” Wulf Wild-Blood stated, rigidly.

“That's a good sign though, isn't it?” Morwen the huntress inquired. “The Guardian served the dragons.”

“So the old tales say, but look at the inscriptions Tharstan recorded,” Baldor the smith said, pointing the the leathery journal in the old scholar's hands. “Loyalty rewarded with an honorable death sounds fairly ominous.”

“I bet they sacrificed him,” Nikulas chimed in. “The Cult sacrificed all kinds to the dragons over on the mainland, even their own.”

Wulf stared at the younger man incredulously. “I trust you won't say anything so horrible when the Guardian arrives...”

“I'm certain Lord Vahlok will answer all of our questions,” Tharstan declared excitedly. “He was quite amicable!”

“Hold your peace, my friends,” Storn said finally. “Give him time to adjust. All will be revealed at the right moment.”

The Skaal fell into a thoughtful yet restless silence, when a little girl's joyful exclamation pierced the freezing air. “Viintaas is back!”

Aeta came racing down the path toward the grownups, an excited grin on her face. “He's coming over the bridge and a really tall man is with him!”

Fanari frowned and exchanged glances with Storn. Did not Tharstan say that the Guardian was a lich? Crag-Strider glanced over at the solitary figure that stood away from the others, the frown deepening on her pale face. His daughter, Freya. She was a fierce protector of their people and had been wary of Tharstan and Viintaas's summoning of the dragon priest from the beginning. They heard the young Dragonborn's merry laughter before they saw him appear into view with his companion.

“Every time I evade death he's going to be so disappointed!” Viintaas snickered, brightening even more as they approached the great hall.

“Tharstan look! He's alive-alive! Alduin er...Thur Alduin brought him back!”

The elder Dovahkiin raised a hand in a somewhat sheepish greeting. The scholar gaped at him in shock, then his walnut-colored eyes lit up.

“Lord Vahlok?? This is most extraordinary! How is this possible?! I had heard tales of the mighty World-Eater devouring age but never imagined that he had abilities like this!”

Fanari glared at the inquisitive man, but the Jailer simply chuckled. “I am as stunned as you are, my friend. This was not the sort of rebirth that was promised, but I am grateful for true life.”

“Sonaak thur Vahlok is going to teach me more about being Dovahkiin!” Viintaas chimed in, practically bouncing in place like a child. “He has the soul of a dragon as well!”

Storn stepped forward, regarding the russet skinned man keenly. Vahlok's face was ageless, his short beard neat, his demeanor confident yet unassuming. His vibrant eyes swirled with the enlightenment of one who had endured great hardship without relinquishing hope.

The elderly Nord smiled, half bowing in genuine respect. “Welcome, mighty Vahlok, Beloved of Dragons, Lord of Solstheim. The Skaal have not forgotten everything you have done for our people.”

The ancient Dragonborn maintained outward composure, but his voice still held a soft timbre. “Thank you, fahdoni, my friend. So much has changed...”

Vahlok's words trailed off as his thoughtful gaze rested upon each and every one of them. “I did not expect my epithets to be remembered. It is an honor to walk among you in this new age. Viintaas has told me that tahrodiis Miraak seeks to enslave the land once again. I vow to do _everything_ in my power to protect Keizaal from his selfish ambitions.”

“It seems that you and Miraak are intertwined in an eternal conflict,” Tharstan commented, rubbing his chin in thought.

Vahlok grew very solemn and Viintaas felt the bitter pain radiating from his counterpart. “Indeed, yet it was not always so. He was my brother once, until he eschewed all loyalty and chose the machinations of Mora over the wellbeing of our kin. Let us speak of lighter matters for a moment.” The Guardian brightened as his attention returned to the Skaal. “Please introduce my dear people.”

Storn inclined his head. “I am Storn Crag-Strider, the shaman of our village. This is Fanari Strong-Voice, our chieftain.”

The athletic, brown-haired woman smiled warmly, bowing her head. “Well met, Lord Vahlok. We are proud to have you here.”

“This is Baldor Iron-Shaper, our finest craftsman of Stalhrim,” Crag-Strider continued, gesturing to the burly man.

“Ah, the ancient art has not been lost, then? Wonderful!” The former lich exclaimed, pleased.

“Were you a smith as well?” Baldor queried curiously.

“Yes, when my responsibilities allowed,” Vahlok replied, eyes shining. “It was a joy to study under Dwiininhus and Ahzidal. Perhaps we shall be able to compare techniques once harmony has been restored.”

“Ahzidal? The priest that was sealed away in Kolbjorn Barrow?” Tharstan inquired.

The dragon priest blanched. “...I do not understand. Zeymahi was imprisoned?”

“According to what little records we have, the remaining members of the Dragon Cult immured Ahzidal in his own tomb due his growing insanity.”

Upon noticing the incredulous stares from Fanari and Wulf, Tharstan finally realized how troubled Vahlok was. “Although historical accounts are often exaggerated!”

“Thuri Alduin warned that we would have to confront him...” Vahlok gazed at the ground, concern etched on his face.

“Maybe he just didn't agree with the war or didn't want to be bothered?” Viintaas ventured, all too aware of the anguish such a revelation was causing his fellow.

Vahlok paused, considering his words. “Ahzidal was - _is_ \- a complex man. A brilliant man. He would oft insist that he was not a good man, but my Solstheim brothers and I felt differently. Saarthal's destruction left him...broken.”

His sapphire orbs met Viintaas's amber ones. “Regardless, I trusted him with my life.”

A new concern struck him, and the Jailer turned his gaze back to the Skaal. “Have Clan Bloodskal's temples been preserved?”

The shaman shook his head regretfully. “Most of our warrior kin's main dwelling has been overcome by both earth and sea. Now thieves inhabit what little remains aboveground.”

“I was exploring near Raven Rock and discovered this _enormous_ cavern that may have been part of a barrow too,” the younger Dragonborn added. He looked apologetic. “I wish I knew more.”

Vahlok exhaled quietly, burying his grief, and regaining his assured demeanor. “Thuri Alduin is bound by neither mortal nor immortal constraints. My zeymahhe _will_ be released from the bondage of undeath.”

He offered Storn a small smile. “Forgive my distraction. Please, continue.”

The rest of the introductions went smoothly as Vahlok enthusiastically greeted the descendants of his followers. He listened keenly to their present-day philosophies and traditions. He pondered their hardships, making mental notes on how best to aid them in the future.

“May I present my daughter Freya,” Storn said, gesturing to the final villager the dragon priest had yet to meet.

The golden-haired young warrior eyed him rather solemnly. “So, you are the who defeated Miraak,” she began without preamble. “Will you truly be able to do so again? He will have only gotten stronger.”

“Freya,” Chieftain Fanari chided, but Vahlok held up his hand slightly. “Whether by my hand or Thuri Alduin's jaws, Miraak will fall. If my life is forfeit for victory to be achieved, then so be it.”

Though Freya would admit it not, the intensity in his cerulean orbs was intimidating. A great shadow abruptly darkened the village, startling everyone save the priest.

“Zu’u koraav hi nonvulbron!” The massive orange dragon thundered, circling boldly overhead. “Mu fen tinvaak!”

Vahlok brightened, declaring, “I know that voice. Do not fear, dii fahdonne. He is a trusted ally, one of the three great ones of Solstheim. One could not wish for a better neighbor!”

Vahlok faced the heavens, crying, “Zu’u hon, thuri!”

The magnificent beast roared an acknowledgement and alighted upon a snowy overlook just past the bridge. The Guardian smiled at Viintaas, eyes dancing with mirth and a hint of mischief. “Come, Dovahkiin. It is only proper for you to stand before Toormaarfeyn, Inferno-Terror-Bane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a late upload again, guys! My work schedule has been crazy due to the holidays.
> 
> Approximate Dovahzul Translations:
> 
> Zu’u koraav hi nonvulbron = I see you, Noble Nord  
> Mu fen tinvaak = We must/will speak  
> Zu’u hon thuri = I hear/heed you, my lord  
> Dii fahdonne = My friends


	14. Chapter 14

In spite of his ominous name, Toormaarfeyn was the calmest dragon Viintaas had ever encountered save for Paarthurnax. He was ancient dragon judging by his jaw and horn structure, but he was much larger than his counterparts. His scales were such a rich, vibrant orange that he almost seemed to glow, a striking contrast to his coal black stripes. His eyes were the color of new leaves and they shone with genuine warmth as Vahlok bowed low from waist in greeting.

"Hail thuri. It has been overlong."

"Malkulaan," the large beast rumbled, nudging the priest once with his muzzle affectionately. His gaze turned to Viintaas appraisingly. "I see you found another Dovahkiin. Why are the currents of Time so muddled around you, boy?"

"That's what I'm hoping to find out," Viintaas answered. He omitted titles to avoid any Dovahzul miscommunication but made certain his demeanor was respectful. He added dragon speech grammar to his ever-growing list of queries for Vahlok.

Toormaarfeyn snorted, then stretched out his muscular neck to better examine the young Nord’s eyes. What an unusual color they were.

Viintaas was unable to keep from jumping a little when the massive dragon jerked its head back.

“Los daar lo?” The ancient dov questioned, vibrant eyes wide.

“I know not, thuri,” Vahlok answered sincerely, mostly sticking with Tamrielic for his new student’s benefit. “But sahrot thur Alduin believes in the possibility.”

The pale skinned Dovahkiin looked at them both with raised eyebrows, clearly waiting for an explanation.

“Let us be forthright with one another, kiir,” Toormaarfeyn began, folding his wings fully. “What can you recall about your life before being touched by the power of a Kel?”

Viintaas exhaled heavily. “Most of it is…horrid, but I do retain some happy memories of my parents. Childlike things, such as playing with them or watching my father use magic,” his voice trailed off, and Vahlok discerned his counterpart’s deep anguish.

“Tinvaak, kiir,” the giant dovah insisted. “Zu’u ni munax drog.”

Viintaas recognized only a few words but the dragon’s insistent, strangely concerned tone could not be mistaken. He ran an unsteady hand through his short black tresses, his voice soft.

“Sometimes…I think he loved magic more than me. I-I remember feeling heartbroken when he left, and that his departure had something to do with magic. The next recollection that surfaced with clarity is the fire. Everything was burning and I could not understand why. Then came the snow elves. The screams…”

The younger Dragonborn took a shaky breath, trying desperately to hide his true distress from the piercing gaze of the orange beast. “Everything is a blur. Some memories returned only after I visited Saarthal’s ruins.” Viintaas fidgeted, fiddling with his satchel. “I uh…I really don’t want to journey through there again. Not yet. Please.”

Viintaas finally met Toormaarfeyn’s eyes and was surprised to see an expression almost as gentle as Paarthurnax’s. “Do not fear, Dovahkiin. I gain no pleasure from the pain of joorre, unlike some of my zeymahhe. Even so, I have one more inquiry.”

His armored head loomed even closer. “Do you recollect the name of your sire?”

Viintaas glanced at Vahlok, who radiated a calm, comforting warmth, despite the worried glint in his eyes. The young Nord mouthed a few words in silence to himself, before his thoughtful expression changed to one of realization.

“Frodenar. His name was Frodenar.”

Toormaarfeyn’s behavior did not change, though Vahlok noticed that the striped dov stiffened ever so slightly. “Koraav. I see.”

The amber-eyed Nord glanced between the dragon and the priest. It did not take a Penitus Oculatus agent to realize that they both likely knew who his father was. Why keep such information from him? He genuinely believed that Inferno Terror Bane bore him no ill will. His courtesy was appreciated yet entirely unexpected from such a powerful dragon. A sudden realization struck him.  
“You-you’re one of the dovahhe that rebelled with Paarthurnax!” The pale Dragonborn exclaimed. “That’s why your actions toward humans are so similar! You hold the same principles!”

Toormaarfeyn snorted. “That is a rather bold assumption to make before a dovah of my standing and a priest as loyal as the Malkulaan here.”

There was a keen light swirling in the dragon’s bright orbs that encouraged Viintaas to push further. “Maybe Alduin doesn’t know or care. Maybe he brought you back to showcase his power. Maybe he needs you since his Cult was all but decim-”

“Why do you think that I was resurrected at all, Dovahkiin?” Toormaarfeyn interjected, swishing his banded tail.

“Because I’ve seen you before,” the scarred man replied. “At the word wall where I learned the romulaag gol; there was an empty dragon grave nearby. With all due respect, you do not look like a dragon that has weathered the elements for thousands of years. And instead of attacking me, you focused your wrath upon the draugr guarding that place. If that is not proof enough, you’re on Solstheim! Out of all the arcane, ancient, and secret accounts hidden throughout the realms, Vahlok is _still_ the only dragon priest revered for being a benevolent ruler to mortals, even by modern societies’ standards!”

The radiant beast snorted, then let out a deep, breathy chuckle. “I should refute your questionable evidence, Dragonborn, given how little is known about our ancient way of life, but you sensed the truth. I did agree with Paarthurnax that Alduin’s tyrannical treatment of elves and men had grown…dishonorable. Lesser beings or not, unnecessary brutality is not the way to prosper one’s kingdoms. Lawbreakers and usurpers deserved all ire and hatred but the peasant farmer that stole from the temple to feed his kiirre? We too, would have scavenged and schemed for the wellbeing of our hatchlings, so why punish a mortal for doing the same?”

He stretched out a wing casually, though his tone remained serious. “Gaafkrokulaan and Hevnofokriid aided Paarthurnax in his endeavors abroad, while Numinex and myself spoke for changes within Alduin’s inner circle. It mattered little. Death and Destruction rained upon both sides before the end. Whatever else you do among our Cult, Dovahkiin, _never_ speak of Paarthurnax before the Firstborn. Even your considerable power and Vahlok’s protection will not save you from Alduin’s wrath. His hatred for his brother runs deep.”

Viintaas nodded slowly, his voice sincere. “I won’t. Thank you for the warning, and for being so candid!”

“I am a dovah of my word, little Dragonborn,” Toormaarfeyn replied. His rich green eyes settled on Vahlok. “You should return unto your villagers. It will not be long before Alduin calls all sonaakke to Bromjunaar.”

The Guardian bowed low. “Yes, thuri Tormaarfeyn.” He smiled a little. “I am heartened by our speech.”

The magnificent beast rumbled good-naturedly. “Kos mul, kul Konahrik.” With that, he unfurled his striking wings and launched into the clear sky.

Viintaas exhaled, glancing at his new mentor. “You know my list of queries has quadrupled, right?”

Vahlok chuckled. “That is understandable. The walk back is brief but let us utilize what time we have.”

“All right. Well…uh,” Viintaas hesitated a moment, falling in step alongside his counterpart. “Any particular reason why no one wishes to share who my father was?”

Vahlok’s expression turned solemn. “Toormaarfeyn does not wish to hurt you if he is mistaken. Neither do I. We are waiting for Thuri Alduin to awaken more of our order’s priests and scholars so that our theory may be indubitably confirmed.”

Viintaas could not help but feel disappointed, but he appreciated the motive behind their secrecy. “Very well. What does Malkulaan mean? I’ve never seen a dragon nuzzle anything before save when Paarthurnax liberated me from Avalanche Oblivion.”

The Jailer’s eyes lit up. “Now _I_ have questions!” He glanced at the ground briefly, a bit embarrassed. “It means…Little Prince.”

The amber eyed lad grinned. “That-that is _not_ what I was expecting! It’s so cheerful!”

The older Dragonborn playfully shoved his shoulder. “Nahlot!” He rolled his eyes at Viintaas’s expectant, amused stare, relenting. “I was privileged to have grown up among the dov due to my father’s role as high priest to the World-Eater. I cannot recall a memory without them, save for times of sleep. The dovahhe were always there.”

Viintaas’s interest was piqued. “And they just tolerated you? Were you ever afraid of disappointing them or being attacked by the territorial ones?”

Vahlok tilted his head in thought. “In my early youth, I thought nothing of rituals and ranks and simply played as any child ought to. The pressure of my position did not sink in until I was around ten or so. There were less tensions among dragonkind then as well. The jills, or female dragons, still dwelt among the males. Many hatchlings were born in those golden years and their mothers did not tolerate threats toward any kind of children, winged or no!” He paused, sapphire orbs glittering. “Looking back now, I deem that Alduin’s favor toward my father’s family was part of what kept me safe. Being dragonborn was another reason, although that was not yet known. What I wish most beings understood is that the dovahhe are not mindless monsters. They are wise beyond most mortals and wilder than the beasts of the field, yet they have families and fears and hopes of their own!”

Vahlok paused, turning to look at his student. “You asked a simple inquiry, and I gave you a rant. Krosis.”

“Are you kidding? I love hearing about the dovahhe from someone who actually studied under them without genociding followers or consulting ole Mora!” Viintaas answered, exuberantly. “For the first time I don’t feel as idiotic as a beached horker while trying to learn about the creatures who have the same soul I do!”

Vahlok smiled warmly. “If all goes well, you shall be able to meet more of my zeymahhe and their patrons soon. The bond between priest and patron is a fine example of both the human and dragon aspects of what it means to be Dovahkiin. It is an enlightening experience to witness a dragon’s true nature around those they trust.”

The younger Nord beamed. “That would be great!” He straightened a little. “Listen, about Paarthurnax-”

Vahlok glanced at the Skaal waiting to meet them and cut him off. “That discussion will require more time and privacy.” He met his fellow Dragonborn’s gaze. “Fret not, I am no foe of Paarthurnax. I understand the reasons behind his actions, and I am relieved to hear that he still lives. No harm will come to him by my hand nor from the priests of my island. I cannot make any promises for the sonaakke on the mainland however and I fear what would occur if certain dovahhe discovered his location. It is not only Alduin who sees him as a despicable traitor.”

Viintaas nodded intently. “I understand.”

“Pruzah, good.” He gave Viintaas a firm, yet not unkind, pat on the shoulder and the two Dragonborn entered the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some knowledge better left unknown, Viintaas...
> 
> Happy New Year-ish! Here's to a much better one than 2020! *squints at Sheogorath*
> 
> Approximate Dovahzul Translations:
> 
> Kiir = Child  
> Kiirre = Children  
> Los daar lo = Is this deception?  
> Zu’u ni munax drog = I (am) no unjust lord.  
> Kos mul, kul Konahrik = Be strong, son (of the) Warlord


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's meet another Solstheimer!

Night had fallen by the time Morokei had finished cataloging his latest observations regarding the Eye of Magnus. He rose stiffly from the Archmage's desk, rolling his shoulders. The pain from his burns had lessened considerably, but he still needed to exercise care with swift motion. He had also completed instructional notes for Ofan regarding Dovahzul pronouns and ranks within the Dragon Cult. The familiarity of teaching was comforting. He glanced at the worn copy of Olaf and the Dragon and scowled. Krosis had prevented him from destroying such heresy until they had a chance to inquire after Numinex's true fate. His red-maned brother glided into the room without so much as a knock, causing Morokei to frown. Such discourtesy was unlike him. “Zeymahi?”

“Nahkriin wishes to speak with us,” Krosis answered softly without preamble. “Zahkriisos is with him.”

Morokei straightened, regarding Krosis's tense form appraisingly. “And?”

“ _And_ what shall we tell him about Numinex?” The shorter priest clarified in his gentle brogue.

“The same report that we would give to any of our brethren; the blasphemous fool known as Olaf One-Eye claimed to imprison thuru Numinex as his pet.” Morokei responded, stowing his notes in the desk's middle drawer. “If there is any truth to such wickedness, we will find all memorials to such a vile joor and destroy them.”

Krosis did not move. “We both know the pain of losing our patrons unjustly, zeymah. How will you handle this situation if Zahkriisos responds...negatively?”

Morokei arched an eyebrow and his velvety baritone sharpened. “How will _I_ control circumstances? Why are you behaving so pensively about Zahkriisos? Such timidity does not become a sonaak thur.”

His fellow priest shifted uncomfortably, and his voice remained low. “We were not on the best of terms after Miraak’s rebellion.”

“Because of Dukaan.” It was more a statement than a question.

Krosis nodded once.

Morokei faced him fully, ready to rebuke his younger counterpart for such childish apprehension, but then he paused. Of their once magnificent order, only the high council remained. Twelve brothers bereft of their patrons, their acolytes, their homes, their very people. Despite the sometimes-extreme disagreements between them, the high priests had been united in their devotion to the dov. They had to salvage what little unity remained in the wake of Miraak and the Dragon War, else they would fail their great master.

Morokei exhaled deeply. “I will do all I can to maintain peace, zeymah. Perhaps you may also reach an understanding.”

Krosis’s gave him a relieved and grateful look, then conjured the complex runes to establish a connection. Morokei straightened his new purple robes, standing before the center of the gently swirling visual portal. He could sense the living presences of both Nahkriin and Zahkriisos keenly. The image that emerged from the distortions was not at all what he had expected. Nahkriin looked awful! A massive wound ran down his left shoulder, as though he had tried to shoulder-check a great axe! The pauldron was cleaved in two and dried blood stained his indigo robes and ebony armor. He also sported the telltale scorch marks of lightning damage.

“What in Oblivion happened to you?!” Morokei exclaimed, while Krosis stared in shock.

“Ask him,” Nahkriin grumbled, as he all but dragged an amused Zahkriisos into view.

“It's not my fault you're too far up your own arse to spot a basic entrapment,” the Solstheim priest retorted, bright silver orbs gleaming. His accent was thicker than Krosis's, louder too, but still pleasant to hear.

“An entire corridor full of pendulum blades?!” Nahkriin cried incredulously, plum-colored orbs wide. “What sort of madman builds such ridiculousness? Especially after the warded entryway of your clan!”

“Thuru Alduin and Vahlok both said to guard to the accursed Black Book, and that is what I did!” Zahkriisos declared, folding his muscular arms.

Morokei tilted his head, regarding the deep purple hues streaking through his fellow priest’s hickory hair. “Problems with storm magic?”

“A pleasure to see you too, oh glorious one!” Zahkriisos said with a smirk. “I wager it was the same problem you were having with the Staff of Magnus!”

Morokei was unable to keep from returning a smile. “Paaz, zeymahi. Was it quite necessary to attack Nahkriin so fiercely?”

The Bloodskal priest shrugged. “He startled me.”

Nahkriin glared over at him. “You have no idea what idiocy I had to endure in order to find an alternate route into your barrow.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, curly hair frizzed out in all directions. “Enough of this, our time is short.”

His keen gaze turned toward Morokei and Krosis. “Vahlok has been reborn, as you no doubt felt. He has taken another Dovahkiin as an apprentice. The boy has been displaced by a Kel in the same way Ofan has.”

Krosis’s brow furrowed and Morokei’s velvety voice was uncertain. “…How is that possible?”

Nahkriin shrugged his undamaged shoulder. “Bring such questions unto Akatosh, not unto me.”

“How long is this amicable attitude if yours going to last, Nahkriin?” Zahkriisos inquired, utterly unphased even by such extraordinary news. “You were never this friendly around Bromjunaar.”

“That was a formal setting,” Nahkriin answered with a longsuffering sigh. “Are you not the slightest bit intrigued by any of this?”

“The Elder Scrolls shall do as they please,” the storm mage declared. “And I’ve seen enough weird shit in old Mora’s realm to satisfy my curiosity. Tell me when the lad can conjure a thunderstorm, then we’ll talk.”

Krosis shifted uncomfortably when the piercing silver gaze fell upon him, yet he spoke up. “When will Thuru Alduin resurrect Dukaan?”

“You are _not_ speaking to him,” the Soltheim priest growled, voice dropping an octave.

“Drem dii zeymahhe,” Morokei interjected, his tone sincere. “Zahkriisos please. Put aside your distrust of Krosis, as Alduin laid down his own misgivings regarding your brother. Dukaan renounced any allegiance to Miraak and took the name Dishonored of his own free will.”  
“You haven’t the slightest idea of the torture he suffered!” His fellow storm mage stated vehemently. “He was just a boy!”

“I know,” Durnehviir’s pupil insisted, his voice softening. “We are all to blame for not discerning how Miraak led him astray. Not just Krosis, and not only yourself.”

Zahkriisos paused, and Morokei could tell that he had struck a chord. “We are all that we have left, zeymah. Our order has no dwellings, no temples, and most of our teachers were slaughtered. _We need one another_ , more so than we ever have before.”

The Soltheimer froze. “Numinex??”

“His end may-may have been unjust and unworthy of such a warrior. We know naught for certain.” The lilac-eyed priest’s voice broke. “I am so sorry.”

Several moments of agonizing silence went by with neither party saying anything.

Zahkriisos’s fists clenched and unclenched multiple times before he finally sighed in resignation. “You’re right, Morokei. You usually are, as much as I despise admitting it.” He glowered at Krosis, ire rekindling. “But if you so much as-”

Both he and Nahkriin abruptly glanced at something out of view, which silenced even the wrathful priest.

“Our overlord calls,” their wounded compatriot said. “Akatosh willing, we shall be able to speak in person soon. May your voice be unrelenting, my brothers.”

The priests in Winterhold bowed their heads in farewell as Zahkriisos closed the visual portal.

“Well,” the ebony-maned priest began, regaining his composure. “That went better than expected. Even our Bloodskal brother has little energy to burn after the ordeal of rebirth.”

Krosis released a long exhale. “It would appear so.” He moved toward one of the tall windows, trying to gather his thoughts as he stared into the darkness.

Morokei did not mind. He rather appreciated the silence as he began writing a message to Jarl Korir. Tedious mortal formalities be cursed! He missed the luxury of being able to dictate letters to a trusted scribe while he did literally _anything else_.

“Zeymah.”

Krosis’s sharp tone made him look up. “Yes?”

“Someone is attacking the barrier of Aren’s prison!”


	16. Chapter 16

The days and nights passed by in a dreadful blur for Savos Aren. The ancient priest had been too busy doing divines knew what with the relics of Magnus to trouble him, but it was just as distressing to be left alone with his tumultuous thoughts. He had been roused from nightmarish reverie when the serpentine dragon attacked Ofan. Aren was uncertain why; the dainty Nord was one of the least threatening people he had ever met. Nevertheless, the beast had seemed hellbent on destroying her. It would have succeeded too, if not for the intervention of his enemy. Why a being as wicked and cruel as Morokei would risk himself for another eluded the Dunmer.

 _We did disturb his tomb first_ , a small voice in the back of his mind whispered. Savos brushed it aside as he slowly sat upright. The former Archmage was startled by the sudden appearance of the illusion professor at the translucent barrier of his prison.

“Drevis?!” He exclaimed, red eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm getting you out of here!” His fellow dark elf whispered rather loudly.

“It's impossible,” Savos lamented. “These barriers...I've never seen their like.”

“Don't give up! I'll get them down!” Drevis encouraged, pondering the myriad of spells he knew.

“What are you doing?!”

Ofan's incredulous cry startled both Dunmer as it echoed through the moonlit courtyard. Aren pushed himself to his feet with a grunt, staggering over to the edge of magical confines. All four members of Tolfdir's class stood frozen in the courtyard below, staring up at their professors in alarm.

“Be quiet, child!” The illusion mage hissed.

“You're the one being loud!” Brelyna snapped simultaneously with Onmund's sincere, “are you mad?!”

“The priests will kill you both, or worse,” the Nord lad continued, fearfully.

“Not if Ofan doesn't tell them,” Drevis snapped, turning his attention back to the energy walls.

“I was trying to save the archmage from torture!” The petite maiden cried, indignantly.

“J'zargo does not think Neloran understands the true agony and duration of being flayed alive,” the khajiit commented, long tail twitching.

“If you’re not going to help me rescue Savos then just leave!” Drevis shouted, rejecting any semblance of stealth. “And let me concentrate!”

J’zargo was about to retort further when a faint noise coming from somewhere behind them caught his attention. Was that a door being opened? He glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. His fuzzy ears swiveled in all directions, seeking out more sounds than his classmates whispering among themselves. The cold wind shifted suddenly and two archaic, yet familiar scents reached his keen nose. The khajiit’s eyes widened. Oh no…

“If you can’t figure out how to break the barrier, how do you expect us to?” Brelyna queried, frustrated. “Listen, I don’t want to see the archmage suffer any more than you do, but he started this feud by desecrating graves.”

“Uh, guys?” J’zargo began, his tone one of uncharacteristic trepidation.

“Finally, someone gets it!” Onmund exclaimed, ignoring him. “I don’t care about ancient secrets if finding them means defiling the resting places of my people! Ancient Nordic ruins are tragic and fascinating, but why must we enter the rooms with obvious tombs?”

“I am grateful my friends understand, at least,” Ofan began softly. “The draugr in Labyrinthian were not ancient ancestors or unknown beings to Morokei. They were people he knew in life.” She met Savos’s gaze unflinchingly. “Being jailed for a time is more than fair penance for what was done to Atmah and Hafnar.”

“Especially after all the lectures about not tolerating any incinerations and keeping one another safe,” the female Dunmer mumbled, folding her arms.

“J’zargo thinks we should leave,” the khajiit warned again, still staring over his shoulder.

Drevis whirled around, shouting. “Unbelievable! After everything Archmage Aren has done for y-”

“Such as lying to us?” Ofan shot back, hurt.

“Are you even listening? We can’t overcome such arcane magic regardless of personal feelings!” Brelyna snapped. “We aren’t even permitted to study _adept_ level spells yet!”

Onmund threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “Forget it! Let’s just get back to the dorms before Professor Drevis gets us all killed.”

“J’zargo doubts that will matter now,” the apprentice destruction mage sighed, ears drooping.

The ancient invisibility spells were dispelled, revealing two masked and irate sonaakke!

"For a teacher of illusion magics," Morokei rumbled, rich voice filled with disdain. "Your awareness is abysmal."

"Even your pupil sensed our arrival," Krosis added, gesturing to J'zargo.

All the blood drained from Neloran's face, but he reacted quickly. Conjuring the most powerful pacification spells he knew, the Dunmer mage slammed his fists into the ground, pale green energy pulsating from them! Ofan felt a forced calm cloak her like a heavy blanket and her head started to ache. Such a suffocating feeling was frightening rather than soothing, but her limbs felt heavy and she was unable to fight or flee!

Krosis canted his head to the side, remaining silent. Morokei responded by violently hurling Drevis against a stone pillar! Keeping the illusionist in place with telekinetic magic, Bromjunaar’s guardian tightened his grip. The students visibly flinched at the nauseating sounds of Neloran’s arms and ribs beginning to pop. The Dunmer cried out in agony and Savos pounded the translucent walls with his fists!

“No, wait! Do whatever you like to me, but allow Drevis to live!”

“He made his choice,” Morokei growled wrathfully.

“Turn away,” Krosis commanded the terrified apprentices with quiet urgency, seeing how sluggish they remained due to the pacifism enchantment.

Ofan obeyed, choking back a sob of horror as the professor’s strangled cries were abruptly cut short, lost in the sounds of shattering bones and tearing sinew.

“You’re a monster, Morokei!” The former Archmage shouted, livid yet heartbroken. “A monster!”

“It is a trait we share, Aren,” the taller dragon priest replied icily. He turned to Tolfdir’s class. “Go to the arcanum. We would speak with all of you.”

It was Ofan’s gaze he sought the most, but she refused to look at him. The petite maiden fell in line with her friends as they followed the Khajiit toward the Hall of Elements.

Morokei felt his brother’s knowing stare upon him and gestured toward the corpse. “Thuru Viinturuth promised to send servants. When are they due to arrive?”

“Soon, zeymahi, of that I am certain,” his red-maned counterpart answered, as the sonaakke left the distraught Savos alone with his grief. “You know nothing at Skuldafn is ever organized properly without Nahkriin’s direct oversight, and he is rather occupied at the moment.”

Morokei exhaled heavily. “Indeed. He looked exhausted. Opening physical gateways takes a heavy toll. Despite the importance of his mission, he deserves a respite.”

The two priests found the apprentice mages dutifully yet nervously waiting in the center of the library. Onmund paced apprehensively while Brelyna and Ofan stayed huddled together. J’zargo’s tail was bristled and still twitching.

“It was his own fault but gods…I was really hoping he would have just given up without getting caught,” the young Nord bemoaned, running a hand through his umber hair.

“If we would have tried to help Drevis, we would have been executed too,” Brelyna began, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Yet-yet maybe we should have tried harder to stop him.”

“Hokoronne fen sosaal fah vothaarn. Adversaries will bleed for their disobedience.” Morokei’s voice boomed across the arcanum, startling everyone to attention.

“Do not blame yourselves,” Krosis soothed, taking gentler approach. “It was pleasing to see wisdom rule you, rather than impulsion.”

“J’zargo believes the entire situation was very impulsive,” the destruction apprentice commented, drawing an incredulous look from Onmund, but Krosis seemed to smile beneath his mask.

“Even so, you remained loyal. A fine trait to possess.”

J’zargo’s eyes gleamed as the calmer priest regarded him and his classmates appraisingly. “J’zargo would be very interested in learning more of the dragons and their magics.”

The two former lichs exchanged glances. The khajiit was a clever one, ambitious and talented.

“It is uncommon to educate anyone other than the descendants of Atmora in the way of the Dov,” Morokei began. “But exceptions are always made for the gifted.”

He inclined his head toward his own student, desiring for her to join him in a more secluded alcove across the rotunda. She followed wordlessly, while Krosis addressed her fellow apprentices.

They stood before a narrow window, neither speaking for a moment. She finally glanced up at him, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. It was not only his masked countenance, but his entire demeanor that seemed guarded. The young woman pushed an unruly curl away from her face. It promptly rebelled and dangled before her left eye anyway.

She sighed, her normally melodic voice distressed. “Punishment is necessary, and I realize the Cult is sworn to wage war against anyone who rebels against the World-Eater. I understand, truly I do, but that does not make it any less gruesome and cruel. I possess not the resolve of an enforcer, Morokei. I will always wish for a merciful solution even when there cannot be one.”

The dragon priest said nothing, but he continued listening, so she continued speaking. “To be frank, I am a tomb desecrator myself for exploring Labyrinthian.”

“Nid,” Morokei interjected, his velvety baritone firm. “I spoke truthfully when I informed those meyye that you did not enter my domain with their arrogant mindset. I was aware that you stole neither artifacts nor treasure from the graves.” He folded his muscular arms. “I also noticed you mostly fled from my followers and engaged in combat only when forced.”

“I have never been called brave,” Ofan replied, “simply naïve. And very curious!”

His demeanor eased ever so slightly, then he glanced out the window. The sky was the faintest hue of red, heralding the dawn.

“You are Sossedov,” the ancient sonaak declared abruptly. “You could have freed Aren.”

She blinked. “I appreciate your confidence in my abilities Morokei, but I have not the slightest idea how your warding magic works. Besides, why would I go against your wishes? You are my friend, my mentor. I chose to join, or perhaps rejoin, my people.” Ofan paused, suddenly discerning the reason for his careful mannerisms. “D-did you think I would betray your trust as Miraak did?”

He finally met her gaze, an amused exhale leaving his lips. “A foolish fear, was it not?” Durnehviir’s pupil swiftly changed the subject. “Why were you wandering the grounds to begin with? Your gait is halting still.”

“A bored J’zargo dared Onmund to enter to the Midden before the morning’s light and Brelyna thought it would be amusing to watch. I could not sleep so I joined them.” The dainty maiden admitted, a bit sheepishly.

She simply _knew_ he was cocking an eyebrow at her beneath the moonstone mask. “…Ofan…”

“You are in no position to judge, good sir,” the platinum-haired mage retorted, beginning to relax. The renegade curl still bounced before her face. “According to your tales, poor Konahrik was terrorized by you and your fellow proteges!”

He smirked beneath the dreadful helm. “Ha! Paaz, malvahdin. Go, rest. You will need strength to mend fully.”

“We will still have Dovahzul lessons as planned?” She inquired tentatively, observing him with those glittering turquoise orbs.

“Of course,” the ebony-maned priest answered. He was rewarded with a gentle, relieved smile.

Ofan was completely taken off guard when Morokei delicately tucked the unruly ringlet behind her left ear. It was the briefest of touches, his hand having barely caressed her cheek, but she felt herself blushing, nonetheless.

“Good night, Ofan Sossedov,” he said, before marching toward the door of the Archmage’s chamber.

“G-good night, Morokei,” the apprentice mage stammered softly, seized with sudden bashfulness as she watched him depart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morokei is dealing with a lot more emotions than he would like anyone to be aware of...
> 
> Is there any way to post art on here? I have a few Morokei doodles I would like to share, but I'm not sure the best way to go about it. Ideas?


	17. Chapter 17

Zahkriisos tore down the great iron doors of the decrepit barrow with an enraged shout! How dare that Altmer lunatic defile his brother's temple with her twisted experiments! He adeptly parried an attack from a spider-enthralled bandit, dispatching the assailant with a swift blow to the neck! Deadroth, joor, or alchemy enhanced arachnid, it mattered little. All fell before the wrathful bearer of the Bloodskal blade.

Numinex's student burst into the innermost chamber, silver eyes resting on the empty sarcophagus before the Word Wall.

“Dukaan!” He called, frantically searching for his sibling.

The Ancient Nord strode swiftly down the stone staircase, glowing weapon still in hand. Raspy breathing from his right caught his attention. The white armored lich hovered anxiously by the obsidian pedestal near the stairs, as though trying to stay in the shadows with the accursed book he guarded.

“Dukaan,” Zahkriisos called, more gently this time. “Bo, zeymah. Thuru Alduin has returned. You will be reborn with me.”

The forlorn lich levitated further behind the book stand; his gaze fixed on the cracked stone floor.

“Dukaan, the World-Eater holds no grudge against you. Toormaarfeyn has been reborn, the others among the Three are certain to follow.” He hesitated, then blurted out, “We'll reunite with Paarthurnax somehow-”

A ragged, pained exhale resonated from his brother.

Zahkriisos's eyes flickered in uncertainty, then his expression became resolute.

“Vulonkrein.”

The eye-slits shot upward to meet his gaze. His elder brother smiled, placing both hands on Dukaan’s bony shoulders easily, despite the other priest’s levitation. Zahkriisos fully lived up to the reputation of legendary Atmoran height!

“We have our intrepid leader,” He began with a grin. “He’s adopted a Dovahkiin junior, and our Master will resurrect Ahz too! This is a chance to start over! Truly change the Cult as we see fit! Not just on our island, but the mainland as well!”

Dukaan regarded him in silence for a few moments, then inclined his head, relenting.

Zahkriisos’s grin grew and he practically steered his younger sibling toward the exit.

“Just wait until you see what happened to Morokei’s hair! Lunatic’s still been experimenting with the Staff of Magnus after all this time!”

Dukaan canted his head to the side, lightly pulling a vibrant purple tress of his brother’s long mane.

“That’s completely different!” Zahkriisos insisted dramatically, causing his much quieter companion to smile.

~ ~ ~

_Vahlok could sense the World-Eater’s magnificent aura before he heard the clarion call. A royal visitation made even the worst of days a little brighter! He swiftly rose from his desk and raced toward the nearest balcony that overlooked the eastern courtyard. It was a revered location for speaking with Alduin and his inner circle personally. The excited young man spied his golden-robed father standing amidst the lush gardens and extravagant stonework, awaiting his patron. The sunlight vanished as the enormous dragon god descended from the heavens, his landing causing the very earth to tremble. Vahlok smiled, ready to use the ethereal shout to leap down and properly greet his wondrous king. The dovah’s words however stopped him short._

_“An audience here is a rare request from you, my Warlord,” Alduin said without preamble, folding his shadowy wings with a dubious snort. “Has Kodaavah's removal revealed more dukaan nikriinne?”_

_“The Order is flourishing under the leadership changes, Thuri. I sought your council regarding a more... personal matter.”_

_The ebony divine stretched out his muscular neck to examine his beloved priest better, sincerely concerned for his wellbeing. “What troubles you, dii mid sonaak?”_

_Konahrik's cultured voice was solemn. “My son has grown despondent, and there is nothing I can do to ease his burden.”_

_Vahlok inhaled sharply. It was discourteous to eavesdrop, especially on the Firstborn, but he did not retreat. Why would his father be discussing his inconsequential struggles with **Alduin**?_

_“Does Rahgot still dare to challenge his authority?” The World-Eater questioned, crimson eyes glinting dangerously._

_“Not since the tournament at Skuldafn,” His priest responded, thoughtfully. “Vahlok has passed his nineteenth winter and is still without a patron, thuri. Miraak is obsessed with his own devices. My boy carries the weight of being Dragonborn alone and I can see how much it agonizes him...”_

_Alduin fell silent, as unmoving as the draconic statues in the ornate courtyard. Vahlok shifted uneasily, overwhelmed by his own embarrassment and the sudden feeling of intense guilt radiating from the dragon god._

_“The blame is mine, dii fahdon,” Alduin said with surprising softness._

_Konahrik's brows furrowed. “My lord-”_

_“Zu'u lost vod,” the World-Eater rumbled, his usually smooth tone tumultuous. “Conquering more lands in my foolish arrogance rather than protecting the ones that needed me most.”_

_Vahlok remained frozen on the shaded balcony, bewildered. He had never felt such grief from his king before._

_“It was an unthinkable tragedy,” Konahrik began, earnestly. “Judiil laid down her life willingly. Only the bravest and most honorable monarchs would do the same, and she possessed the noblest spirit of any dovah I have ever encountered. She would not wish such melancholy upon you. As for kiiriil, the flame has not been extinguished. Surely there is-”_

_“You sound like Paarthurnax. That portent is meaningless!” Alduin roared abruptly, massive tail snapping like a bull whip. “ **Meaningless**!”_

_Most would flee at such a display of wrath, but Konahrik remained unmoving, discerning the anguish behind it. Alduin snorted, remaining tense for several long moments, before finally exhaling heavily._

_“Dii yuvonkul,” the Firstborn lamented. “Dii malshul. He was meant to be your child’s patron. You cannot dispute this truth.”_

_The most powerful of all the sonaakke approached his dread lord and placed both hands on the obsidian muzzle in silent empathy. Alduin closed his eyes, keeping his elegantly savage head near his dragon priest, comforted by the one he trusted most._

_Vahlok trembled, quietly leaving the terrace. He had never seen the god of all dragons so discouraged, so vulnerable, and had a feeling Alduin desired to keep it that way. The Dovahkiin knew firsthand how exhausting a constant show of strength was, but he never imagined that Akatosh’s Firstborn would be disheartened by similar trials. The longer he pondered this new revelation, the greater his loyalty to the World-Eater grew._

“Long night?”

Vahlok startled at the sound of Viintaas’s clear voice, tearing his distant gaze away from the Skaal village down below. He blinked several times at his young counterpart, trying to focus. “Is it morning already?”

Viintaas resisted the urge to point at the obviously rising sun. “…yes.”

He was surprised to find the Guardian on the same snowy overlook he had left him at the night before.

Vahlok glanced upward at the pale sky and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah. Apologies. I was lost in reverie yet again.”

The amber-eyed lad offered a small grin. “No shame in that. I find childhood memories overwhelming. I can’t fathom what a _lifetime_ of recollections would feel like!”

The Jailer’s posture relaxed a little, but his aura remained troubled.

Viintaas regarded his mentor thoughtfully, then ventured, “…you want to talk about it?”

Vahlok was taken aback by such an offer, pausing. He observed Viintaas carefully for a few moments, before smiling softly and inclining his head. “I would welcome a fresh mind’s perspective, fahdoni, thank you.”

His rich voice lowered. “And there are… open secrets about our Master that we need to discuss. Most would consider such subjects treasonous, but you deserve to know. Such knowledge helped me understand Thuru Alduin’s actions with greater clarity.”

Viintaas became more serious and he nodded. “I would appreciate greater insight myself. Let’s take the path by the water, not even the reiklings will bother us there.”

The elder Dragonborn agreed, falling in step beside his fellow as the pair began the trek through the powdery snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be frank, we'd all eavesdrop if our parental unit was spilling the tea to our favorite king/god/celebrity/.
> 
> Approximate Dovahzul Translations:
> 
> Bo = Come. Can be used as come or go.  
> Dukaan nikriinne = Dishonorable cowards.  
> Zu'u lost vod = I was absent/gone  
> Judiil = Your queen  
> Kiiriil = Your child  
> Dii yuvonkul = My golden son  
> Dii malshul = My little sun


End file.
